


The Lion and the Serpent

by aWICKEDgiraffe



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Sentinel
Genre: 5th year, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Alternate Universe - Sentinels & Guides, Boarding School, Especially on Draco, Hermione takes too much of an interest, M/M, Modern Setting, Normalization of Hogwarts, Peer and Familial Pressure, Sentinel!Harry, Sentinels!verse, These two have no idea what they're doing at any point in this fic, did I mention no magic in this fic??, no magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2018-08-02
Packaged: 2018-12-06 06:16:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 30,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11594643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aWICKEDgiraffe/pseuds/aWICKEDgiraffe
Summary: Harry is a Five-Senser Sentinel who is slowly being crushed by the weight of the expectations on his shoulders. Draco is burgeoning Empath whose mind is torn between familial loyalty and loyalty of self.A Non-Magical Harry Potter Sentinels!AU.





	1. Going Home

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Harry Potter and the Sentinel Phenomenon](https://archiveofourown.org/works/401691) by [elyssblair](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elyssblair/pseuds/elyssblair). 



> Sorry I've started another WIP. I've actually been working on this one for a while now, and it's 1am so I'm not thinking clearly. I just really want to share this with you, guys. I love you all and I love Sentinels!AUs, and there are not enough in the HP fandom.
> 
> Sorry its a WIP, but I hope you enjoy it enough to leave me a comment! Happy reading.

1

•–•–•

 

 _“The Sentinel Phenomenon is a very mysterious and misunderstood product of genetic mutation and the evolution of man. In ancient times they were known as guardians of civilisation; men and women who developed hyper-acute senses and empathic abilities, to defend their tribes and protect their dwellings. The scholars of the Middle Ages saw them as God’s protectors; families and individuals blessed with the divinity of the Holy Ghost, who exercised enormous religious, judicial, and political power (ex: the Medici clan of Italy). In the modern era, these guardians were renamed: the Sentinel and the Guide, beings that bring to mind the ancient and otherworldly._

_“Scientifically, Sentinels and Guides are not well understood. The phenomenon seems to both follow_ and _break the laws of modern genetics: it typically stays within certain family lines, but can also appear randomly in non-Sentinel families, which baffles geneticists. “The Sentinel gene is a geneticist’s Holy Grail and Achilles’ Heel, all in one,” writes Dr Bathilda Bagshot of Oxford University. “It’s a very mysterious gene. It doesn’t always behave as it should; most cases it gets passed down from parent to child, but there are times when it does not. Most mysteriously, it can appear and disappear in an individual’s genome at random without mutation or engineering, and scientists don’t know why. There isn’t another gene anywhere like it in the world, and that’s very exciting, but also very frustrating.”_

 _“It is not known when the Sentinel gene first came into the human genome, though there have been many claims of origin made by cultures throughout the globe in every century, all unfounded by modern anthropology. The Sentinel, most scientists believe, has always existed alongside the homo sapien, protecting his interests and guarding his communities from the beginning. Regardless, the phenomenon is certainly global, with references of the super-humans in the written and oral tradition of many cultures on every habited continent, and did you get that? Are you listening to me? Harry—”._  

 

•–•–•

 

“Harry, are you paying attention?” Hermione’s eyes snapped up from the _History of Sentinel Phenomena in Great Britain_ from which she had been reading and watched as the glaze over Harry’s eyes cleared, and he sat up a little straighter, rubbing an ear absently. 

“Um, what …” he began, and Hermione sighed. 

“Honestly, Harry, this is important. Ever since you came online at the end of last year, you’ve barely touched any of the books Dr Sinistra, and I gave you. Have you at _least_ been practising those dialling exercises she showed you? As a Sentinel, she is well-equipped to help you prevent zones.” 

Harry had the decency to look sheepish. “Err…”

“ _Harry!_ ” 

“Okay, but in my defence, her explanation was really confusing, and I don’t really get what she meant about the dials. I don’t picture any dials, let alone mentally manipulating them, or whatever she said. I can’t control my senses at _all._ ” 

Hermione leant back in her chair and closed the book with a frustrated sigh. “Well, which sense was it just then?” 

“Hearing. The twins are out by the chicken coop plotting a prank against Percy. I got caught up in their conversation, and I couldn’t pull away. Honestly, though, somebody ought to warn Percy not to be the first one into his room tonight, ‘cause it won’t be pretty.” 

Ron, one hand supporting the weight of his head as he leant on the table, scoffed at that. “Yeah mate, we would if anybody _liked_ Percy. Insufferable git.” 

Hermione frowned. “The chicken coop? But we’re in the attic … that’s quite a ways from us. You couldn’t hear that far last month. Oh, Harry, I think your senses are getting stronger by the day!” She didn’t look happy about it. 

Harry wasn’t either. “I didn’t ask for this! It’s bad enough to be the son of some famous martyrs, expected by the whole _country_ to champion the cause they died for. Now their ancient spirit genes pop up in my DNA and decide to ruin my life. And guess what? They’re not _normal_ ancient spirit genes; they have to be _super powerful_ ancient spirit genes because the universe hates me.” He let his head hit the desk in front of him. 

Hermione looked unimpressed. “Are you done?” She asked dryly and turned back to her book. “Here’s the chapter about Sentinel dials. I’ll read it to you, and you tell me when you get lost.” 

“When,” Harry said immediately, and wasn’t surprised when the book ended up in his face.

 

•–•–•

_Abbot. Black. Flint. Lestrange. Malfoy._ Malfoy’s eye grazed the tapestry hanging in his Grandpapa’s sitting room from where he was lounging upside-down on the sofa, bored out of his skull. Grandpapa was in his office with his mother and Grandmamma, so there was no one to chastise Draco for his terrible posture. _Gaunt, Prewett, Weasley …_ the names of Britain’s Sacred 28 families whose bloodline carried the Sentinel gene.

Well, _used_ to carry it, way back in the 1820’s when the list had been compiled. Those had been the golden years of the Sentinel Towers, when the Sentinel population had been numerous and had garnered considerable political power and respect from the common masses. But then war had come, and then another—years of fighting, the deaths of so many Sentinel sons and Guide daughters, followed by the death of the Tower and all it stood for. Fewer and fewer Sacred 28 families turned out the Sentinel genome. The Tower weakened from population decline and its power was asphyxiated by the political machinations of Downing Street. The Church reversed its historical position on the Sentinel phenomena and publically withdrew their support of the modern Tower and the common masses followed, fuelled by ignorance and scientific denialism. Some religious sects even began denouncing them all as heretical sinners that must be purged of their demonic powers through the blood of Jesus Christ. 

Half a century was all it took to reduce a once thriving, powerful agency to rubble. These days, the Tower huddled in its little corner of London like a dog licking its wounds, keeping to itself and plotting newer and more far-fetched ways to come back into the good graces of political leaders and the British people. At the centre of this crumbling Babylon was his Grandpapa—Abraxas Malfoy, the last Sentinel of the Malfoy family and the current Prime Sentinel of the Tower of London and its subsidiary branches.

Draco’s head began to go fuzzy from all the blood reddening his face, and he turned upright again with an impatient sigh. Honestly, there was no reason for his mother to have dragged him here if they were just going to talk about him behind his back. They needn’t bother, anyway—Draco knew what his Grandpapa wanted.

Grandpapa Abraxas’s summons had come at the end of the previous school term, obnoxiously ornate with its calligraphy and wax seal. It had been the first communication between Grandpapa and Father in over twenty years, and it was no coincidence that it had arrived on Draco’s 15th birthday. 

Draco had been home on special leave from school, to celebrate his birthday privately with his family, when Lucius had received the post from their butler, Mr Dobbin. Lucius’s face had gone white and furious after reading the letter’s contents. “After all this time, he thinks to command me like the boy I once was! He has _no_ right to interfere with my family. He gave up that right when he turned me aside.” 

To the Prime Sentinel of London, nothing mattered but the internal affairs of the Tower, his precious Sentinels and Guides. When Lucius was young, he’d spent almost all his time at the Tower with his father, doted on by Abraxas and brought up with the traditional teachings of the Sentinel culture. It was believed that, like his father, Lucius Malfoy would be a Five-Senser, a powerful Sentinel with all five senses enhanced to superhuman levels.

“Such power and prestige is the birthright of a Malfoy,” Abraxas would say, his hand on Lucius’s shoulder as they supervised the goings-on of the Tower. “And someday you shall come into that power, and I will teach you what it means to be a Sentinel.” 

But Lucius was never to learn that lesson, for his fifteenth birthday came and went, and he remained horribly, fatally human. Abraxas grew colder, no longer spoiling Lucius as he once did, and seemed to become uninterested in Lucius’s life. On the eve of Lucius’s sixteenth birthday, when it became irrefutable that Lucius had broken the centuries-old chain of Malfoy tradition, Abraxas turned his son out of the Tower. Lucius was left with his name and nothing else, and the Malfoys became the 16th family of the original Sacred 28 to turn fully human. 

Years of silence preceded the birth of Draco, after which there came one hospital visit and two clinical cards every year—one at Christmas and one on his birthday. There was also the very infrequent visitation, which was always awkward and insincere. Draco was just the final hope of an old man to have a family legacy—and it would be resolved today, one way or another. Either Abraxas would get Draco, or he would have done with them all once and for all. 

Pointless. Draco had been 15 for several weeks now, and there was no sign of Sentinel power in him. This meeting was a waste of time, and he’d look forward to never having to exchange a single word with his Grandpapa after this day, the big brute. 

His mother finally emerged from the office, looking tight-lipped and unhappy. “Draco, darling, Abraxas would like to see you now.” She walked past him to the window, sitting down gracefully on the window seat and pointedly not sparing the office door another glance. 

Draco heaved himself up with a put-upon sigh and wandered towards the office. Despite his earlier convictions, Draco’s heart beat a rabbit’s pace in his chest. What if he _was_ … what if Abraxas saw something in him that Draco did not, and he’d have to move into the Tower? Away from his family and his friends and his freedom … oh _God._  

He gulped and pushed open the door. Abraxas Malfoy stood slope-shouldered by his huge bay window; hands folded neatly behind his back and white hair glinting brighter than freshly fallen snow. Grandmama was nowhere in sight. Draco’s eyes flinched at the brightness, wondering how the room could still be so gloomy with the sun streaming in midday splendour. Must be his Grandpapa’s presence. 

“Take a seat, boy,” Abraxas ordered in his gruff, old voice. Draco held back the distasteful snort he wanted to give at being addressed so rudely. He perched in an overstuffed chair across from the grand cherry wood desk, hands folding delicately in his lap.

Abraxas turned to face him, his grey eyes sharp and discerning despite the deep crow’s feet at the corners. He did not waste time with grandfatherly platitudes; he sat down at his desk and steepled his fingers under his chin. 

“Describe to me your feelings on the day of your fifteenth birthday,” he commanded. 

“Yes, sir. I felt excited, I suppose. Happy. Moody, at one point—” 

“Not that, boy! Did you feel ill at any point? Any nausea or vertigo? Do you remember anything that smelled particularly strong to you or things that sounded louder than they should?” 

Draco internally rolled his eyes. Grandpapa surely realised that Draco _knew_ what he was asking about, right? He wasn’t stupid. If he’d come online, he’d have known about it. “No, sir. Nothing was amiss. I felt perfectly fine all day. Everyone was calm and happy and had a nice time. I had a bit of a headache in the afternoon from a sugar buzz, perhaps, but nothing else.” 

Abraxas, who had started to sneer, had his attention caught by something in Draco’s words. “How can you say everyone had a nice time? Did you overhear a conversation? Could you sense a gentle rhythm in the room, like a heartbeat?” 

 _Hearing heartbeats._ What a senile old man. Just barely restraining himself, Draco gritted out, “I know they had a nice time because they were invited by a Malfoy, so they daren’t have anything _else_. I didn’t come online, Grandpapa. I’m like my Father, and you know it. Once a family turns human, there’s no going back. Sorry for the disappointment. So are we done?” 

Abraxas sneered down his long, pointy nose at Draco, like he was an insect underneath his Oxford shoes. “I’ll not tolerate cheek, boy. You’re under my roof, and you will show me the respect that begets. _No_ , we are not done. There’s still hope that your blood will be of better stock than your father’s, and will bear fruit; you are a far cry from sixteen, after all. There’s still time.” 

Abraxas stood, lording over Draco even more. “I expect you to write to me weekly while you are at Hogsden-Warton. You are to describe any particularly strange feelings or senses that you experienced and, failing that, will write me of your academic achievements. You are, whether a Sentinel or human, a Malfoy—and Malfoys _achieve._ Never forget that.” 

Draco dug his fingernails into the leather armrests. “Yes, sir.” 

Abraxas stared at his grandson for a moment longer, before suddenly commanding, “Come here.” 

Confused, a bit terrified, Draco slowly got up and shuffled over to the older man. Abraxas considered his face, and Draco could tell his senses were on full-dial. Whatever he was looking for he wouldn’t find, Draco thought determinedly. 

Then, horrifically, Abraxas put his arms around Draco’s shoulders and pulled him into the most awkward hug Draco had ever received. “I … am not good with family matters,” Abraxas began, and he couldn’t hide his discomfort anymore than Draco could. “But I _am_ glad to see you and your mother. Your father never understood that it was _impossible_ for him to remain at the Tower once it was confirmed he was not Sentinel—I did not intend to push him away. He still owns the Malfoy name, and he will always have it. It is the same for you.” 

Horror rendered Draco speechless. He stood limply in his Grandpapa’s arms, longing for this torture to end. 

Abraxas cleared his throat, pushing his grandson away. His disapproving look was firmly back in place. “Mind what I told you, and mind your cheek. I’ll expect my first letter the second week of September. You’re dismissed.”

Draco couldn’t get out of there fast enough. He was too fast to catch the contemplative look that followed him out the door.

 

•–•–•

Abraxas's confusing words and alarming actions were quickly forgotten as Draco's mental and physical health took a steep dive in early July. He began suffering from headaches, and as the summer progressed he grew moodier and more tempermental.  One moment he would act sweetly towards his parents and the staff, and the next he'd be throwing meaningless temper tantrums or staring out windows in melancholic depressions. The constant mood shifts were exhausting him.  His parents grew terribly concerned, and Draco overheard late-night talks about Black family insanity and discreet doctors and possible mood stabilisers.  He was afraid of what was happening to him, and figures in white lab coats and straightjackets featured prominently in his dreams. When August came and went and still nothing had come from his parents' talks, Draco could only be relieved. Lucius clearly valued their family's social capital too much to destroy it by committing his only heir to an institution. 

On the morning his train was due to leave for school, Draco just felt anxious. He loved Hogsden-Warton (fondly nicknamed ‘Hogwarts’ by its pupils), and he was normally very excited on the start-of-term. But all morning as he was getting dressed and packing snacks and things to do on the train, a low-level anxiety buzzed through his brain. 

Later that morning, standing outside King’s Cross, Draco wasn’t ready. Beads of sweat formed at his temples and under his collar and his pulse throbbed dully. Why was he reacting this way? He’d been in this station at least eight times before this, and there was never an issue. Draco didn’t hate crowds; he quite loved being the focus of one, so why did he feel jittery and skittish? He felt like he was in a little, fragile bubble, and outside was the scrabbling, scurrying dark things in the world that would swallow him whole the minute the bubble popped. He wound his arm through his mother’s for comfort, trying to remain calm and casual. 

When they walked into King’s Cross Station, Draco almost thought he could hold it together. The constant ache in his head and dulled slightly; the bubble felt a bit sturdier. His mother’s touch was warm and lovely, all things bright and safe. He thought he could do this, for exactly five steps into the building. And then, someone pushed past him, accidentally brushed Draco’s wrist with his hand, and _pop_. He cried out in pain, stumbled, lost his grip on his mother, and fell. 

“Draco, darling! What on earth is the matter?” His mother sounded shocked, and was instantly by his side; her expensive clothes allowed to be damned and dirtied. But Draco couldn’t understand her, couldn’t hear _anything_ over the roar of blood in his ears, and the pounding tom-tom beats of pain of his head.

His eyes slammed shut. His heart raced. Will he be late? He can’t be late! Hurry, hurry—Tears leaked out of his eyes. Someone had died; someone close to him. He had to bring the ashes somewhere special to them, a willow tree on a hill—His pulse danced in his throat. He’s going home for the year, after an awful summer with people who don’t love him, and he’s so, _so_ happy. 

“Draco? Draco!” 

Draco came back to himself. He was clutching his blond hair in two fists, he was rocking back and forth, and he was mumbling to himself. “Late … ashes? … I feel so …” He opened his eyes, looking into the panicked eyes of his mother and father. He’s reminded, at this moment, that despite their cold demeanours they were actually quite fond of him. He forced his voice louder. “I’m … feeling a little nauseous, Mother. I need to sit for a minute.” 

His mother shushed him, and his father helped him stand. They brought him over to a chair and proceeded to worry about him. “Here, darling. Drink some water. Is it your head, do you have another migraine?  We can delay your departure, if you need to go home and rest.”

They fussed over him some more, feeling for fevers and giving him sips of water until their quiet love and concern was all Draco felt, and he relaxed for the first time since leaving the Manor. All of the other stuff, the strange, incomprehensible stuff, went away. “That's not necessary.  I’m better now, Mother, Father—thank you. Shall we get to the platform?” 

Later, when Draco had finally extricated himself from his anxious parents and made his way onto the school train, his headache came back with a vengeance. His friends gave him just the right amount of sympathy and sat bunched together on the opposite side of the compartment so that Draco could stretch out and lay down, his head in Pansy Parkinson’s lap. Pansy cooed at him, gave him a temple massage (which was lovely) and a couple of paracetemol tablets (which were even lovelier), and then he practically passed out, lulled by the massage and the motion of the train as it left the station and headed towards Scotland. 

As he slept, one of the strange feelings he’d gotten earlier in the station returned, strengthened, and lodged deep in his mind. _Home, home. I’m going home._

 

•–•–•

 

 


	2. Needing Help

2

•–•–•

 

Harry disembarked from the train as slowly as he dared, trying to put distance between himself and the rest of the student body. His sense of hearing had been off all day, jumping between conversations and bird song and every other far-off noise relentlessly, making him feel nauseous.

Hermione and Ron walked beside him, doing their best to be quiet. They had tried to have conversations with him the entire train ride, but with his ears not under his control, their voices had been excruciatingly loud at times and inaudible at others. Not conducive to friendly banter. Ron had tried to have a written conversation with him later in the afternoon, but they both had tired of the exercise rather quickly.

“Should I get Professor Sinistra?” Hermione mouthed slowly so that Harry could lip-read. Harry shook his head. Sinistra was a Tower-trained Sentinel who taught the natural sciences at Hogwarts. She had been coaching him in monitoring his senses since coming online, but her talk of meditation, reflection, and control of what she termed the “inner dials” had never made any sense to Harry. As a result, their lessons never progressed much. He didn’t feel like trying to lip-read as she spouted the same incomprehensible stuff as she always did. He’d have to wait a bit, but Harry’s sense of hearing would sort itself out eventually. 

So until then, Harry would endure, listening to snippets of distant conversation, the clicking of bats, the wind’s whistle as it whipped through the castle turrets and utter silence in turn. It wasn’t too bad, honestly, and Harry’s stomach was feeling more settled as he entered through the castle doors and into the school’s Entrance Hall. 

Which, of course, is when everything went to hell. Pansy Parkinson’s high, nasally voice pierced Harry’s brain very suddenly from across the hall.

“Draco, darling, what is the matter?” Harry cursed his hearing, which had locked onto the sound of Malfoy’s name faster than an over-eager duck with a crumb of bread. He flicked his head in irritation, as if to physically yank his hearing away, and forced himself to keep walking towards the dining hall. He knew that if he looked over towards Pansy, his vision would get stuck there too. Something about Malfoy always seemed to catch the Sentinel’s attention, and it drove Harry batty. 

“Still have that, that headache. I’ve been getting them a lot lately; it’s not a big deal. I’m alright, Pans, don’t fuss.” Malfoy’s voice sounded a bit hoarse; and it also stuttered a bit, as voices sometimes did when they lied. Harry suppressed the intense desire to turn around and examine Malfoy. 

“How can I not fuss? My poor darling in pain, I can barely stand the thought of it!” Pansy responded dramatically. Harry rolled his eyes as hard as he could. 

“Ugh, Pans, lower your voice, would you? I think your pills might be wearing off. I’ll have to get some more from M-adam … Pom-mmurgh …” 

Pansy’s vapid giggles cut off sharply, and a shriek took their place. “Draco! You’re swooning! No, darling, no, please sit down. Stay here; I’m getting Madam Pomfrey.” 

Nothing could keep Harry from turning around at that. His vision narrowed and focused in on Draco Malfoy, pale and shaky and sitting on the floor. His long fingers were tangled in his cornsilk hair, and there were beads of sweat gathering at his hairline. Harry almost lost himself to a Zone watching one glisten. 

He shook his head, forced his eyes closed, and tried to settle down. He battled with his Sentinel instincts, which wanted to watch and move closer, by stepping away and taking a deep breath. He was vaguely aware of Ron and Hermione breaking their silence beside him, asking him what was the matter—they wouldn’t have heard the commotion across the Entrance Hall, had no idea Malfoy was collapsed on the floor fifty feet from them. “Madam Pomfrey,” Harry supplied hoarsely, opening his eyes once more. “Mal—someone is ill, we need Madam Pomfrey. My hearing won’t focus, I can’t listen for her. Quick, Ron—is she in the dining hall?”

Loyal Ron took off at once without question, dashing off inside the Great Hall and disappearing into the crowd. Harry turned the opposite way and started barrelling towards the stairs, hoping to catch Madam Pomfrey en-route to the Feast. His ears were still captured by Malfoy, his harsh breathing and his groans of pain echoing in Harry's brain—and then a sharp gasp, which Harry wouldn't realise had come out of his own throat until much later. 

All of a sudden, halfway up the stairs, Harry felt the most incredible force rushing through his brain, like a sun-warm wave breaking over him and pulling him to shore. As it pulled, it seemed to tug all the wrongness inside him—the pain of unbalanced senses, the excess, directionless energy—with it. Harry sank to his knees, finally sensing those dials Dr Sinistra had been going on about for ages in his mind’s eye. The wave rushed over them, zeroing them out. Harry felt normal, for the first time in months. He groaned in complete relief and pleasure. 

And then the gentle force blew itself out and dissipated, leaving Harry gasping and confused and wanting more. His senses remained in balance. There was a bunch of shouting from across the hall that Harry heard with normal ears, and he turned to squint with normal eyes at the commotion. Malfoy had apparently passed out on floor—Harry could just make out the streak of blonde hair where it lay haloed on the stone. 

“Out of the way, Potter!” Parkinson’s screeching soprano startled him out of his staring, and he shuffled aside as she and Madam Pomfrey rushed down the stairs and towards the fallen Serpent. In a matter of minutes, Pomfrey had directed Parkinson and a couple of older students to trundle Malfoy off to the Hospital Wing. They brushed past him a second time, and Harry got a good look at Malfoy’s pale face, gentle and calm in unconsciousness. 

Harry sat down on the stairs in a daze. He didn’t know what to think about that strange force that had blown through him. It felt like the times he’d been pulled out of a Zone by Madam Pomfrey’s Empathy—except a _hundred_ times more intense. He looked around, trying to see if anyone was staring at him funny, or if he could sense that incredible power again around again … but with his vision balanced and normal, he didn’t get very far with the exercise. It was frustrating, to say the least. The _one_ time he needed super senses … 

“Harry? You all right?” Hermione lingered at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at Harry with concern. He finally seemed to take notice that there weren’t many students left in the Entrance Hall, most have gone into the Feast. 

Harry shook his head and stood up. “I’m … fantastic, actually. Something incredible just happened, but I don’t know what. Come on, and I’ll tell you all about it at dinner.”

 

•–•–•

 

Harry swallowed nervously, rearing back instinctively from the maniacal look in Hermione’s eyes. She was grinning widely, leaning forward in her enthusiasm and excitement. “Do you understand what this means? Of course, you don’t—you never listen to a word anyone says.” She turned to Ron suddenly, making him jump. “Ronald, please tell me at least _you_ understand what's happened!  The Weasley's are a Sacred Twenty-Eight family, after all." 

Ron looked between his girlfriend and his best mate in bemused silence. Hermione groaned. “Why do I even bother? Oh, Harry, think about it—a force like Madam Pomfrey’s Empathy, but a hundred times more intense? A force that balanced your senses and evened you out? What does that sound like to you?” 

“Er, well I guess it was Empathy? Had to have been, right? Maybe Madam Pomfrey was unconsciously emitting it in her rush to get to Malfoy,” Harry hypothesised. “Adrenaline can do that for an Empath, same as a Sentinel.” 

Neville Longbottom, who had apparently been eavesdropping on their conversation, chimed in. “But Harry, an Empath doesn’t just get stronger just because they’re stressed, not that dramatically. You said it was a _hundred_ times stronger. That doesn’t sound like an Empath to me.” 

Ignoring Ron’s, “Hey, private conversation here!” Hermione turned to Neville with great enthusiasm. 

“Exactly! Neville gets it. A person with one-hundred times the strength of an Empath means …” 

“A Guide,” Neville finished, looking awestruck. 

Hermione clapped her hands gleefully. “Exactly! There is an actual Guide currently in residence at Hogwarts.”

Ron whistled lowly, looking impressed. Neville looked around the Great Hall as if he’d be able to spot a student wearing the name tag, “Hello, I’m a Guide!” Harry just looked confused. 

“And that’s a big deal because …? I mean, there’s a bunch of Sentinels here, and you lot have seen Madam Pomfrey use her Empathy like _all_ the time. What’s so special about this?” 

Hermione rolled her eyes up as if looking to God for patience. “Five minutes of an attention span. That’s all I asked for.” She looked hard at Harry. “Madam Pomfrey is _not_ a Guide; she’s an Empath—a person who specializes in one or two Empathic techniques. Guides are a very different thing,” she explained. 

Neville chimed in again. “Yeah, Harry. It’s kind of like Sentinels and their five senses. You know that most Sentinels have two or three that are enhanced, and it’s incredibly rare to be a Five-Senser like you. It’s the same thing. Some Empaths can read minds, others can heal Spikes and Zones like Madam Pomfrey, and others are just a bit Empathic and can feel others’ emotions. But a full Guide can do all of those things, and _more._ They’re just like 5-Sensers, incredibly powerful and extremely rare to come by.” 

“And there’s one here at Hogwarts,” Ron finished. “They’ve already made an Empathic connection with you, so we know they’re not bonded. That’s some incredible luck there, Harry.”

Hermione and Neville launched into a side conversation about famous Guides, eventually drawing Lavender and Parvati into the discussion. Ron shrugged and went back to his dinner. 

Harry looked around at the many laughing faces around him in the Great Hall, trying to imagine someone with his level of power hiding among them. He felt wowed and nervous, and a bit freaked out, to be honest. It seemed like fate that this powerful counterpart to Harry would show up only a scant few months after Harry had come online and made headlines as a 5-Senser. And fate was something that rubbed Harry the wrong way, made him feel pressured and not in control of his own life.

He looked down at his dinner and had to close his eyes as his mince pie suddenly looked a lot closer than it was supposed to. _Great._ His senses were starting to unbalance themselves again. The brief ripple of the mystery Guide’s Empathy wasn’t enough for even one hour of relief. He began to wonder what it would be like to have a Guide, to have access to that rushing, purifying riptide whenever he needed it. It would be so amazing … he’d never spike or zone again.

Although … if Abraxas Malfoy knew there was a Guide at Hogwarts, he’d probably want Harry and them to bond. He’d only met with the Prime Sentinel once before, right after he’d come online and been pulled out from the Zone that had resulted. He’d come to Hogwarts with a Tower scientist, who’d tested his abilities and made the discovery that Harry was a much coveted 5-Senser. Abraxas had been insistent that Harry leave for the Tower immediately, and only the efforts of Dumbledore and Dr Sinistra had allowed Harry to remain in school. Harry had never been so relieved in his life—Abraxas Malfoy had looked at him with such greed in his eyes and had made Harry feel incredibly uncomfortable. It made Harry hope that the Guide could remain hidden, for their own sake. 

Thinking of Abraxas had made Harry’s eyes wander unconsciously over to the Serpent table. His gaze fell on the empty chair where another unpleasant Malfoy who made him uncomfortable usually sat. In the excitement over the mysterious Guide, he’d forgotten about Malfoy’s sudden severe illness. Harry was surprised, remembering the panic he’d felt at the time when Malfoy had collapsed, and how his senses had automatically stretched out to zero in on the blond. He’d felt incredibly alarmed at the sight of Malfoy sprawled on the floor in a faint and could still picture Malfoy’s face as he’d been carried to the Hospital Wing. 

He reminded himself that he _really_ didn’t like Malfoy but still wondered if he was ok. Madam Pomfrey wasn’t at the High table, so she was obviously tending to him. He almost looked forward to the return of his crazed senses—it would make eavesdropping on the Serpent table a lot easier, as he was sure Pansy was telling the other Serpents all about it. 

Sometimes it seemed like Malfoy was the eye of his Sentinel hurricane, and he wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

 

•–•–•

 

Draco woke up hours after the Welcoming Feast had ended, feeling foggy-headed and dry-mouthed. He groaned as he turned over in bed, head pounding. "What—?"

 "Awake, are you?" Madam Pomfrey hovered at his side, helping to set him up before tipping water into his mouth. "You gave us all quite a scare, keeling over as you did. You should know better to keep yourself well hydrated on long, hot train journeys! I'll have you drink two cupfuls to start with." Draco opened his mouth to ask a question, but Pomfrey just used it as an opening to pour more water down his throat. 

Sputtering, Draco swallowed the mouthful and glared at the ageing nurse. "I'm not dehydrated, woman, just drowned!" 

"Mind your tongue, Mr Malfoy," Pomfrey said, and she shoved a thermometer under said tongue. "...and your cheek." After a moment or two, she removed the glass stick and looked carefully at the reading. "Well, no indications of a fever. We'll call it dehydration and possiblely stress-induced for now, but let's keep our eye on it, shall we?"

Draco wanted to argue—he didn't _get_ stressed, and he'd drunk some water on the train. But his head was hurting, and he felt too exhausted to debate it. Pomfrey gave him two pills with his next gulp of water and then helped him back into a horizontal position. "Alright then, Mr Malfoy. Back to sleep with you, and we'll check on you again in the morning." 

Morning came early for Draco, but an improvement in his condition did not. Draco felt almost worse than he had the previous night, and could barely even lift his head for the pain it caused him. Pomfrey tsked and gave him more medication, before laying a cold cloth on his forehead. "Poor thing! I'm going to call your mother, see if we can't pin down the cause of this migraine." _Great,_ Mother would be concerned enough to bring up the possible family psychosis and a need for mood stabilisers. There went his social rank, right down the toilet.

Draco was excused from his classes and made to stay in bed in the Hospital Wing all day. Pomfrey refreshed his bowl of ice-water every hour and made him sit up and eat at lunchtime, but otherwise left him to rest. He was in pain and bored, which was a terrible combination—it put Draco in a horrible mood. Any time someone other than Madam Pomfrey was near him, his headache and temper both grew worse. Pansy visited him twice, bringing him the syllabi of their shared classes, but her presence made him so ill and cranky that she didn't stay long.  Greg and Vince only came once, and lasted a minute and a half before Draco's mood had sent them running. 

He felt best in solitude when he was allowed to be alone with his thoughts and his reading. But as soon as another person walked into the Hospital Wing, his skin would go all itchy, and his emotions would grow unstable. Pomfrey began to make him feel anxious and irritated, and there were moments when Draco swore she thought he was faking to get out of first-day classes. Which, _rude_. He may be a bit difficult personality-wise, but he did take his schooling very seriously. He would be first in his year if that peasant Granger weren't such a brown-nosing know-it-all. 

Draco was dismissed from the Hospital Wing after his day of rest with a bottle of water and a half-full tube of paracetamol. "Drink lots of fluids, and get a full eight hours of sleep tonight. I've had the cafeteria staff make some chicken soup for you; make sure you drink up all the broth. It's just what your body needs to get better," Pomfrey advised. Thanking her stiffly for her care, Draco left.

Draco struggled with his health all week. His headaches and moodiness seemed to get much worse outside the Hospital Wing, and despite popping three paracetamol the morning of the second day of classes, he was still unable to attend, bedridden by a pounding headache. The third day he'd made it all the way out to the corridor beyond the Snake House dormitories before he reached a busy section of the hall and his brain had exploded with pain. Pansy had had to drag him back to the dorm and put him to bed like a child, which had been humiliating.

His emotions were all over the place, and moods came and left seemingly arbitrarily. Ridiculous as it sounds, it was almost like he was catching the emotions of other people.  Pansy's happiness at having a friend in her Maths class had made him feel content too—but then Greg had come in miserable and hungry and it had set Draco's stomach growling mercilessly, giving him the kind of nauseous pain that came with a belly that had been empty for too long. After eating half his weight in stashed sweets, Blaise had come in exhausted from a long sports practice, and one yawn had sent Draco drifting off to sleep in moments. He'd woken up in the middle of the night with a foul-tasting mouth, and had slipped off to the loo to brush his teeth.

He stared at his reflection in the mirror, pale and baggy-eyed and terrified. _What is wrong with me? Why is my body acting like this? Why am I suddenly so affected by others?_

And then his heart missed a beat, jumping from his chest into his throat. _Oh, shit._ He grasped his chest, staggering away from his reflection in abject horror and slumping down to the floor against the furthest wall. _Oh, God._ Oh _, my God_. Because suddenly he knew, suddenly it all made sense—why hadn't he thought of this before? Those Sacred 28 names, the ones from the tapestry he had seen dozens of times, _Longbottom, MacMillan, Malfoy_ ... His own family name had been displayed for years for him to see, a testament to what his family fundamentally was, what they were capable of becoming.  Of what _Draco_ was becoming, day by painful day.

 _Empathy,_ a voice whispered in his head, and Draco knew the instant the thought it that it was true. He was coming online as an Empath, a person who could feel and be influenced by the emotional energy of others. 

An Empath ... Draco felt shocked and horrified. His father would be scandalised, having been exiled from that world so callously as a teenager and learning to hate it passionately as an adult. Lucius would hate Draco too if he found out he'd become one of _them._ He may even seek to exile Draco from his house, abandoning him to the will of his Grandpapa.

And that was another horrifying thought—his Grandpapa's reaction to all this. Abraxas would be disgusted to have a weak-willed Empath in the family. Malfoy men had always been Sentinels, the strong and virile ones of the pair; the ones who wielded strength and cunning with a supernatural power. When he'd been questioned before the start of term, Abraxas hadn't even thought to ask any questions related to Empathy, after all, because Empaths were useless and weak creatures to a man like Abraxas. He thought of his meek Grandmamma, the way his Grandpapa always lorded over her and commanded her like a servant. He knew that if Abraxas ever got a hold of him, that was the kind of life he would suffer.  A life of silence, always three steps behind someone else, left in background and ignored until his Empathy was needed, a tool to be used and put away.

Draco's eyes burned, and he fought the urge to cry. _Oh God, how did this happen? Once a line turns human, there's no going back! That's how it's supposed to work!_  His hands balled up into fists, and he squeezed them hard, still fighting the tears welling in his eyes. What was he supposed to do now? He couldn't cope with these headaches, and now that Draco knew the cause was Empathy he understood why the paracetamol tablets had little effect on them.

But now what?  He couldn't go asking for help, not unless he wanted to be disinherited and sent off to his Grandpapa. So what could he do? Maybe he could write an email to his mother, asking her to mail him books on Empathy and Shielding.  She would be more sympathetic towards him.  But no, if he told his mother then his father would undoubtedly find out too, and that was unacceptable. Maybe he could discreetly check out some Guiding books from the school library ... but that would draw attention to his situation if anyone saw him.  And he was so weakened by his condition that he couldn't even attend classes or leave the dormitory at all until he dealt with it. He couldn't wait for the time it would take for his mother to send him a book, and he would never make it to the library.

There was only one thing he could do—he had to consult an Empath directly.  And there was only one Empath at Hogwarts. 

He got out of bed quietly, throwing on his favourite silk dressing gown and making his way towards the door. Now that he'd made his decision, he didn't wait—since he appeared to get sicker the more people were around, it made sense to go now while everyone was asleep and out of the way.  He snuck out of the Serpent dormitories quickly, and up to the second floor of the old castle. He crept up to a door just outside of the Hospital Wing, and stopped.  He stared at it's outline in the darkness, and took a deep breath before rapping the wood sharply with his knuckles. It was so late; he could very well get in serious trouble for this ... 

Poppy Pomfrey opened the door sharply, eyes a little bleary but apparently alert and ready for an emergency. "What is it? What's happened?" 

Draco felt her adrenaline rush keenly, his heart speeding up to race along with hers and his head pounding in time. "Madam Pomfrey. I'm sorry for waking you, but I needed to see you right away. I figured out what's wrong with me."

Draco looked into Pomfrey's eyes with all the mature seriousness he could muster. "I need your help."

 

•–•–•

 


	3. No Problem

3

**•–•–•**

Madam Pomfrey stared at him from across her desk, rendered mute in shock. Draco waited for her, watching the steam from his cup of tea rise and swirl in the air. 

“An _Empath_ ,” she finally said, sounding dumbfounded. “Of course it seems obvious now given your symptoms … but how could I have even suspected it? No family has had an Awakening once the line turned human!” Her gaze unfocused, and she brought several fingers up to her mouth, muttering to herself. “Although the genome can appear randomly in an ordinary family … it just seems like too much of a coincidence that it would make an appearance just one generation into a newly dead line!” 

Draco shook his head.  “It makes more sense for it to be random chance,” he said. “My family is only known for Sentinels. There’s never been a Guide or Empath in the Malfoy paternal line. If the line were still alive, I would be in Professor Sinistra’s office right now and not yours.”

Pomfrey was silent a moment longer but then shook her head. "Well, dear, I believe the Malfoys are in for a rebranding. You have your own Sentinel genome now, which will be passed down through _your_ paternal line. Any future Malfoys, if not human, will be Empaths." 

Draco felt anxiety settle over him like a thick blanket. To go from a proud line of Sentinels to fully human, and then to a line of Empaths just as suddenly was unheard of. It was positively freakish, and Draco certainly felt like a freak thinking about it. "My Grandpapa will just _love_ this," he muttered sarcastically—not that he planned on letting Abraxas find out. 

"Yes, well, we'll make a call to your family," Pomfrey said, getting up from the desk. "They've been anxious about you, and will be glad to learn what's been causing your illness." 

Before he'd even realised he'd moved, Draco stood up from his chair and blocked Madam Pomfrey's way. "No, you absolutely can _not_! You can’t tell anyone about this!"

Pomfrey reared back, caught quite off-guard. "What's got into you? Of course we need to tell them! They're your _parents_ ; they need to know." 

"Don't you know who my father is, and which political circles have his ear? It's not exactly a secret," Draco spat. "Telling him is the _last_ thing we should do." 

Madam Pomfrey hesitated, uncomfortable. Lucius's dismissal from the Tower had been serious news at the time, and many reporters had done stories on it. Several dedicated journalists had continued to follow Lucius throughout the fallout—when Lucius had announced he was disowning his father but reclaiming his name, creating a ‘pure branch’ of the Malfoy family.  Around this time, he'd also fallen in with a rather large group of political elites who vocally disavowed the Tower of London and the Sentinel population as a whole. Lucius and his associates called Sentinels barbarians, remnants of an uncivilised time who had no place in modern society. 

Draco's words made Madam Pomfrey realise what a man like Lucius Malfoy might do if his only son were found to have that which he so personally hated: the Sentinel genome.  It was the bitter reminder of his failures and trauma, and it didn't take a genius to realise that it might cost Draco dearly. 

Pomfrey was wavering, but didn't give up; instead, she changed tacks. "Your grandfather, then. You can go to the Tower, and he can help you tame your Empathy. We'll call him."

Adrenaline and rage coursed through Draco's slim body. He puffed up like a cornered dog, trying to take up as much space as possible. "You will call no one! It's _my_ issue and _my_ decision! Grandpapa is a great brute, and he doesn't need to know. I can handle this without him!"

Pomfrey threw up her hands. "You most certainly can _not_! You’ve yet even to attend any of your classes, Draco—you need your grandfather's help to get you Shielded, or you’ll _never_ be able to handle crowds.”

"I don't need his help— _you_ can teach me. It's why I've come to you, Madam Pomfrey."

"Me?!  But ... I'm not Tower-certified. My family is independent, and our methods are not standardised. I'm not qualified to be a teacher!"

"Even so, you are the only experienced Empath in Hogwarts and the only one who can help me deal with this. _Please_ ," he said, putting more sincerity in that one plea than he'd ever felt in his life. He really _did_ need her, and his entire life rested on her response. He was at a fork in the road: one way lead to despair and disownment, the other to health and autonomy. 

Pomfrey sighed, looking helpless. “I … I don’t feel right about this. I’m just a school nurse; I’ve never even been inside the Tower. I’m not trained for this!”

 “Oh, rubbish—you’ll be loads better than my Grandpapa and his brainless little Empaths. An independent Empath is just what I need. It’ll be perfect! All I require is a little bit of control, and then I’ll be out of your hair. _Please,_ Madam Pomfrey?”

 “Oh … I’m going to regret this, but very well. I’ll teach you.”

Draco couldn't help it—he grinned. It was very anti-Malfoy, but he didn't care. "Thank you, Madam Pomfrey, thank you! And you won't tell my family?" He needed one final confirmation. 

"I won't," she said gravely, "Although I think that's the wrong decision. And my secrecy only extends so far—one hint at any _real_ threat to your health, and I will not hesitate.” 

"It won't come to that. You can teach me all I need to know, and then there won't be an issue."

 Poppy closed her eyes, feeling like she was in way over her head, and sighed again. "We’ll see. All right then—bed first. It's close to three AM and I'd like to sleep myself. First thing in the morning, we’ll start your training.”

 

•–•–•

 

Madam Pomfrey had lent Draco her couch to sleep on instead of a bed in the infirmary like he'd expected, due to the lateness of the hour. He'd felt _incredibly_ awkward at first, hunkered down in front of her fireplace wrapped in a knitted caduceus blanket, but his weariness had overcome his nervousness after a bit, and it didn't take him long to fall asleep.

The next morning, Pomfrey had breakfast delivered to her rooms for him. He hadn’t been able to dine in the Great Hall at all due to his illness and was subsequently _starving._ Being away from the other students made Draco feel healthier, and he ate with relish.

"Well," Pomfrey said, sipping at her coffee, "I believe it's clear to both of us that you're the Empathic kind of Empath—the type who's able to feel other's emotions as if they were their own. It's a redundant name, I know, but it's the most common speciality there is. It can also be one of the most overwhelming to the mind if the Empath is not trained in Shielding. So the priority will be teaching you how to construct a Shield." 

Draco nodded, setting down his fork after swallowing up the last bit of egg on his plate. "I've heard about Shielding, but I don't know much about it." 

Pomfrey got up and began stacking the dirty breakfast dishes. "A Shield is a barrier of Empathic energy that prevents emotional noise from affecting you," she explained, adding Draco’s plate to the stack. Draco wasn’t used to domestic chores and figured that Madam Pomfrey would guess that about him, so he didn’t offer to help. "A Shield also prevents so-called 'leaks' of the Empath's own emotional energy, which can happen unconsciously with an untrained Empath such as yourself. It can lead to dangerous situations. For one, it would reveal your status to any Sentinel or Empath in the area, which I'm assuming you don't want."

  _Definitely_ not. The thought alone was enough to make Draco shudder.

They relocated to the sitting room, perching on either side of the couch he’d slept on the night before. “So, making a Shield requires an Empath to be able to move and manipulate their Empathy,” Pomfrey continued, turning to face him. “Tell me, Draco, can you feel the energy inside you? Can you pinpoint where it’s coming from?”

Draco closed his eyes and tried to become more aware of himself, despite feeling silly. He tried to sense something out of the ordinary, some kind of energy he'd never felt before—but when he sought to concentrate, the headache still lingering in his brain flared up and grew worse. He gave up after a few moments, rubbing at his neck irritably. "There's nothing, just this stupid headache," he whined. 

Poppy nodded thoughtfully. "That headache is a result of a swelling of the cingulate cortex, where Empathy originates. It's an important emotional centre of the brain, and it swells in size once proteins release the energy it contains at the tail-end of puberty." She flipped through a medical journal she grabbed from the side-table drawer and then flattened it out in the space between them on the couch. It showed a drawing of the left hemisphere of the brain, and Pomfrey pointed out where the cingulate cortex was located. "See if you can condense that pain, trace it back to its origin.  It's called the 'Wellspring'. It should feel like a warm spot deep in your brain. Mine always buzzes a bit, when I focus on it."

 It took Draco around fifteen minutes to work through the flaring head pain enough to feel where it was coming from. It was like a boiling kettle in the centre of his brain; tiny in width but very, very deep. 

"Very good," Pomfrey complimented as he relayed his final success. "Now, this next part is going to be very tricky, as I can't adequately describe to you how to do it. It's not something physical, and so there's no experience you can draw from to get a sense of how it feels. You simply have to reach within that well, figuratively, and draw out the power. Get it to move, even just a little bit. Do it once, and then it’ll be easy." 

She stood up and went over to a bookshelf in the corner of the room. "I want to give you something. This book has been handed down for four generations in my family," she said, pulling out an old, well-thumbed tome from the top shelf and bringing it over to him. "It has been a great resource to me ever since I awakened my Empathy. I'll lend it to you today while I'm working at the Infirmary. Anytime you feel you need a break from the Empathy relocation, give it a read. I'm sure it'll prove useful to you."

Draco looked at the front of the book with great interest. "Thank you," he said sincerely.

"Alright! I'm off to work. If at all you lose the sense of what you're doing, go back to the first step and just feel the wellspring inside your brain for a bit. That should keep you on track. I'll be back at noon for lunch to check on your progress—just try not to push yourself. No more fainting, young man!" 

Draco nodded distractedly, but then looked up sharply once he heard the door open. "Madam Pomfrey, wait—I wanted to say that I really do appreciate all the help you're giving me and that I don't expect charity. I will gladly pay you for your time and services. I'll tell my parents I'm getting tutoring or something; they won't question it."

"Draco," Poppy began, looking back over her shoulder. "Not everything has to do with services rendered or payments received, and not all kindness should be considered charity. Sometimes, people do things just because they are the right things to do. Happy reading." The door clicked softly behind her. 

Draco sat silently in her sitting room for a few moments, surprised into stillness. Then, he shrugged and turned his attention to the book in his hands. _A Glimpse Into the Gentile Arts of Guiding_ , it read. Sneering at the world 'Gentile,' Draco opened up the front cover and began reading.

 

•–•–•

 

Harry's senses had not caused him any major stress the first three days of school, which Hermione attributed to the mysterious Guide and Harry attributed to sheer dumb luck. But now it was Thursday, and Harry knew from the moment he woke up that today was going to be an Off Day.

His sense of taste was dialled up to the maximum percentage, making the usual slight sourness of morning breath taste like the shit of a rotten skunk corpse. He gagged, running for the lavatory, before throwing up in the toilet.

And then he had vomit-taste in his mouth dialled up to maximum, which made him throw up again, and again until there was nothing left in him. Ron and Neville, having followed him in concern, sprinted back to the boy's dormitory to grab the pitcher on the windowsill and fill it with water. Ron practically drowned Harry in-between vomiting fits, forcing the water into his mouth in an attempt to wash out the taste. 

And then, for reasons that continued to baffle Harry, the dial turned down to zero in an instant and Harry couldn't taste anything. 

"Rogggglub—" he tried to say, just as Ron poured more water into Harry's open mouth. He choked a bit and then spat out the water into the bowl. He held up a hand before Ron could attempt to drown him again. "W-wait! I'm fine; it's better. Taste went to zero, I think—can't taste anything anymore."

Ron sighed in relief, handing Harry the near-empty pitcher of water and slumping against the stall walls. "Bloody hell, Harry, what a way to wake up in the morning. I thought you were going to sick up all over me!" 

Neville leaned in from the doorway, a thoughtful look on his face. "Never actually seen that shade of green before, Harry," he said. "It was quite something."

Harry stood up, flushed the toilet, and went to the sinks to brush his teeth. "Yeah, well I'd never tasted the back end of a dead skunk before today, so there you go. Ugh, that may have fixed me for all the foods I've never liked—there's no way brussels will ever taste as bad to me compared to that." He gave himself an extra minute gargling the mouthwash since he couldn't feel the burn of the alcohol anyway.

Later, he was reminded that taste and smell were bedfellows when he brought yesterday's uniform shirt up to his nose, to see if he could get away with wearing it again. 

"Hey, Seamus—smell this for me. Does it smell okay?" If he had to be a Sentinel, he was glad he could do it as a man. He was positive that having a girl's sensitivity along with raging super senses would be an even more horrible way to live.

The Irish boy snagged his shirt and gave it a good sniff without hesitation. "That's a no-go, mate. The armpits have gone off. Get a new one, and that's two layers of deodorant for you today!"

At breakfast, Harry took advantage of his lack of taste to eat the healthiest breakfast choices he usually avoided, even braving a glass of Luna's homemade green vegan smoothie that probably had a bunch of grass in it. He remembered how abhorrently strange it had been the first time he'd lost his sense of taste, but it was old hat now. Just keep breathing through the nose, and it would sort itself out eventually.

Letting his friends' conversation filter through his ears (which were currently working correctly, thank goodness), Harry's gaze wandered through the Great Hall and landed where they always did—on Malfoy's empty chair. Concern welled up in his chest despite himself. Today would mark four days in a row that Malfoy had been absent from school. Harry burned with a combination of curiosity and worry. Just how ill _was_ the git? Was he still even at Hogwarts, or had he been taken to hospital? For the first time, Harry wished he had at least one acquaintance in Serpent House so that he could ask them about it. Unfortunately, the Lions had always had a bitter rivalry with the Serpents, and blanket hatred was something that was taught to every new Lion entering their first year.

Of course, Lions were taught to be courageous too, so Harry didn't hesitate to march up to Pansy Parkinson during study-break.

"Parkinson," he whisper-shouted, getting her attention. The look she gave him when she realised who’d called her would make any baby cry on cue. 

" _Potter_. What do you want?" The words lacked fire; she seemed distant and preoccupied.

"Worried about your prat of a boyfriend?" He probed, pointing at the chair usually occupied by Malfoy. "Haven't seen him around lately. Is he faking sick again to get everyone's attention? We all know how much he _loves_ the spotlight." 

As he'd hoped, one little insult was all it took for Parkinson to snap, and open her mouth without thought. She shoved a finger in his face. "You prick! You have no idea what he's going through, how he's been so weak from an illness that he hasn't even been able to get out of bed! I've had to take care of him, help him eat and drink, watch him suffer terribly through his pain. So don't you stand there and accuse him of faking it! You don't know _anything_." 

Harry couldn't keep the surprise from his face. He never thought it would be _that_ bad, enough that Malfoy couldn't even get out of bed. "Are you serious? What's wrong with him?"

Parkinson drew back, realising she might have said too much. She folded her arms, going tight-lipped. "None of your business. Go away."

Harry persisted. "Tell me, Parkinson! Is it pneumonia, or something? Is he even still here, or did Madam Pomfrey send him to hospital?" He advanced on her, starting to feel agitated. She leaned away from him, back flush against the desk behind her. 

"Why do you care? You're not his friend, Potter; you have no business sticking your nose into his matters! Just piss off, won't you?" 

What he called ‘the Sentinel’, which was actually just the excessive energy that roiled around him (and honestly felt a bit sentient at times), churned in irritation at Pansy's refusal. He stalked forward until she was completely cornered, using his greater height to intimidate her further. Her eyes widened in alarm at his display, unused to the intense aura of a Sentinel.

“I asked you a question, Parkinson,” he said, voice growly and low and coming from a place deep inside him, one he didn’t fully understand. “Where is Malfoy?” 

“Mr Potter! What on earth do you think you’re doing?!” Professor Vector’s sharp voice cut through the primitive fog in Harry’s brain, and he stepped away from Parkinson with a quiet gasp. He immediately flushed red, seeing every single student in the room looking at him in shock and disbelief. He supposed they’d never seen him act like a Sentinel before—he usually tried so hard to reel himself in. _Fucking Malfoy …!_ Even in absentia, the blond bully never ceased to cause him humiliation. 

“Jesus _Christ,_ Potter!” Pansy shrieked, no longer afraid. “Keep your barbaric mannerisms to yourself! You know this only proves what my father says about _your lot_. You’re all a bunch of Neanderthals who should have gone extinct _aeons_ ago!”

“That’s enough, Parkinson. Sit down and get back to work. Potter, a word out in the hall, please. Bring your belongings.” Professor Vector marched out the door, her sensible heels clicking behind her. Embarrassed and still angry, Harry threw his belongings back into his bag and followed.

“Look, I’m sorry,” Harry began before Vector could chew him out. “She just pressed a button, that’s all. I didn’t mean to lose it. Nothing happened, anyway.”

“Because I intervened. You cannot _ever_ forget that you are different from us, Mr Potter, whether you accept that or not. You have a power that can easily lead to others’ harm, so you can’t afford to have _buttons._ ” She sighed, looking away from him and brushing her bangs back. “Go to Dr Sinistra’s office. I’ll call ahead to let her know to expect you.”

“Th-that's not necessary; I’m completely back to normal! Let me stay; I promise I’ll—” 

“This is not up for discussion,” Professor Vector said. “Go.”

 

•–•–•

 

Aurora Sinistra was most intimidating woman Harry had ever known, impossibly tall with long black hair that always hung over her shoulder in gathered braids. Her eyes were the most noticeable things about her; light caramel irises pierced through Harry as he sat across from her in her richly-furnished office. 

“Mr Potter. Trouble in study hall, I hear.” Her voice was as sultry as her flawless black complexion. She was a woman of few words outside the classroom. Harry always figured it was because she was used to people clamming up in her presence. She was a very strong Sentinel, after all—a Four-Senser.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, not feeling very talkative himself. He stared down at her oak desktop, counting its polished rings.

She was silent for a long moment. “Dial strengths,” she then inquired. 

Harry frowned in thought, scratching at his nose. “Um, taste was up to one-hundred percent this morning, then zeroed out with smell. Sight and hearing seem okay for now. Touch is a bit sensitive, maybe … Sixty percent?”

She gave him a look, which he interpreted to mean that she was disappointed that he still had to guess. He couldn’t help it—the only time he’d ever actually sensed his dials was with the aid of the Mystery Guide’s Empathy. Not for the first time, he wondered if he should risk telling her, then decided against it.

“Last zone?”

“July 31st, at my birthday party. Too much noise. Mrs Weasley sorted me out no problem, though.” That was a major understatement, but Sinistra didn’t need to know that.

Dr Sinistra made a mark in her notes and then regarded him stoically. She filled out a referral slip and handed it to him.  “You will go to Madam Pomfrey for an adjustment,” she commanded softly, and Harry sunk lower in his chair. A trip to the Infirmary for Sentinel reasons would go into his permanent file, and that meant he was one black mark closer to a suspension and a Tower referral.

“Yes, ma’am,” he muttered.

 “It does not bode well that you are here now, one day ahead of our scheduled appointment,” she said. “I believe I was clear at the end of last year when I gave you your ultimatum.” Harry couldn’t look at her, feeling small and helpless. “Learn to control yourself, or I will be forced to recommend your withdrawal from this school, and you will be sent to the Tower. There can be no threats to the student population so long as I am the Sentinel Advisor here, understand?” 

Harry swallowed. “Yes ma’am,” he repeated. 

“Very well then. I will see you tomorrow for our meditation meeting. Dismissed.”

Outside, Ron and Hermione were waiting for him like the amazing best friends they were. Ron even had chocolate for him, and Harry was so grateful that he didn’t care that he couldn’t taste it. 

“Did you get into much trouble?” Hermione asked fretfully.

Harry swallowed his melting mouthful, wiping an arm across his mouth. “A bit,” he admitted. “I have to go to the Hospital Wing and let Pomfrey do an adjustment.” 

Ron looked sympathetic. “How many marks will that be, then?” 

“…Four.” Three from the last June, when he’d come online. One for today. A Sentinel student was only allowed ten marks in his file before he was considered a danger to himself and others and banished to the Tower.

“So that leaves only six marks you can get from now until our graduation,” Ron summed up unhelpfully. “No problem, right?”

Harry scoffed.  " _Sure,_ no problem."


	4. Ruin

4

•–•–•

 

Poppy returned to her quarters around noon as promised, laden with a tray of simple cucumber sandwiches and lemonade. She found Draco still curled up on the couch, halfway through the book she’d lent him. 

“Mr Malfoy, how’s your progress?” 

Draco blinked, startled by her voice. “Oh, Madam Pomfrey. Is it lunch already?”

Poppy smiled, setting down the tray. “I take it you’ve been on a break for a bit longer than you planned? It’s all right—it’s an interesting book if a little condescending.” 

“Quite so.. I’ve been reading it with Grandpapa’s voice in mind, and it’s a perfect fit.”

Poppy chuckled, coming to sit next to her student on the couch. Draco could be quite a charming and funny boy if one only knew how to navigate his frequent tempers. “So did you manage to access your Empathy before your break, or have you given up for now?” 

Draco put his nose up in the air.  “Oh, I got the hang of that _ages_ ago. In fact, I’ve already made a Shield! I’ve been reading to see if I could figure out what the next step was,” he replied pompously. 

Poppy raised an eyebrow in cautious surprise. “Well, is that so? Let’s get a feel for this Shield of yours.” She closed her eyes and concentrated on the warm, familiar buzzing at the back of her head, drawing up power from her wellspring. She reached out like it was an extension of her hands, using it to feel out Draco’s Empathic aura. There was indeed a little bubble of energy around his head, thin and lopsided. She smiled. “Well, for a first attempt, that’s not bad at all! Well done!” And then she slammed her Empathy into his bubble, concentrating on the concavity, and popped it like a balloon.   

Draco gasped, his whole body jolting up off the couch with the shock of the blow. The book dropped to the ground in a flurry of pages. “What the bloody—what—“ 

Poppy stood as well and faced him. “For a beginner’s attempt it wasn’t bad, but as a functional Shield, it was useless. It needs more compactness, greater thickness. It should be consistent in density all the way around. Try again.” 

Draco was angry—without the bubble, his emotions were leaking all over the place, filling the air with empathic backwash. Poppy strengthened her own Shields to prevent emotional pollution, as it wouldn’t do to have them both angry.  Draco took a breath to calm himself down and scowled at Pomfrey. “I would appreciate you _not_ doing that again without warning me,” he gritted out, but then closed his eyes and brought his hands to his temples. Poppy let her blanket of Empathy drape over Draco once again to monitor his progress.

The young Empath grunted in exertion, working hard to pull his toffee-like Empathy out of its wellspring. Unlike Pomfrey’s fluid and elastic Empathy, born out of maturity and practice, Draco’s was resistant to movement and quite inflexible. Little beads of sweat rolled down his forehead as he formed another roughshod bubble around his head.

She gave direction as he proceeded: thicken the walls here, expand the size there, feed more energy into the construction. The bubble often popped under the duress, and each time Draco had to start over again. It was very strenuous work with little payoff, and the boy was getting frustrated. But Poppy knew that the workout was essential—he was stretching metaphysical muscles he’d never flexed before, and each new struggle gave him more and more control.

By the end of her half-hour lunch break, Draco’s Shield was feeling much sturdier, and more consistently proportioned. It was a good start, though they had a long way to go if they expected it to stand up against real emotional pressure. “Alright, take a break. _Good,_ Draco, excellent work!”

Draco, who was sweaty and irritable, collapsed on the sofa in a huff. “That was not good, that was _awful_. My head hurts, and I'm all sticky,” he whined. “Tell me I at _least_ made a proper Shield this time, so I’ll never have to do that again!” 

“Now, you _know_ it doesn’t work that way—you’re past chapter three in the guidebook, so you should have read all about it," Pomfrey chided.  "Shields, like any piece of architecture, must be regularly maintained or they crumble. I’m afraid you’re in this for the long haul.”

Draco groaned and dropped his head to the sofa arm. "Don't fret, dear.  It will get easier the more you do it, and eventually, it will become second-nature to you.  It's only difficult when it's new."  She grabbed the plate of sandwiches and the lemonade and brought it over to him. “Here, have a bite! You’ll feel better."  Draco half-heartedly nibbled on a cucumber sandwich while Poppy cleaned up and prepared for the second half of her day. As she was picking up the guidebook from where it had fallen earlier, she remembered something important.

“Oh, by the way—your teachers have all been asking after you. I told them that you had a respiratory infection and you were on bed rest. But there’s no way I could justify more than one week’s absence. So you’re expected back in classes on Monday, with all your owed work completed and ready to turn in. I’m sorry.”

Draco choked on a sip of lemonade. “W-what? But my Shield isn’t good enough yet; you said so yourself! I’m not ready to go back. I _can’t_ have another meltdown in public; I’ll be discovered!”

Poppy sighed resignedly. “Normally, a Guide or an Empath can take up to two weeks to learn how to use their Empathy properly and build themselves a solid Shield. But since you want to keep your Awakening a secret, you don’t have that luxury. You’ll have to do in three days what a natural Empath does in seven.” 

Draco stared at her, and his expression was so much like a frightened deer’s that her Empathy immediately projected the feeling of comfort. “You can _do_ this, Draco. You’re an excellent student and a fast learner, and you already have a good start.” She glanced at the clock and withdrew her Empathy when she saw that she was already late for her afternoon shift. “Take some time to eat and rest, and then practice with your Empathy again. We’ll try the dormitories tonight and see how it goes, okay?” 

She couldn’t help herself; she stroked a hand over his blond hair like a mother would, giving him physical comfort the way her own parents had whenever her Empathic abilities had overwhelmed her.  Poppy had never had an Empathic student before; and as she left her newly determined pupil behind, she worried that between the lying and the secrets, they were both getting in way over their heads.

 

•–•–•

 

Draco worked very hard over the course of the following three days, filling his hours with practice, meditation, and homework. He started sleeping in the dormitories again after a mildly successful trial night, and none of his dorm mates were any the wiser to the truth of his illness. 

“Poor thing, being shut up in the Hospital Wing all by yourself,” Pansy crooned his first night back, scooting closer to him on the couch and going for his hair—Pansy liked to pet Draco’s hair. “That bitch wouldn’t even let me _visit—_ ” 

Draco startled her by springing to his feet; one arm outstretched as if to protect himself from her hand. “NO PANSY, DON’T!” At her incredulous stare (as well as the stares of everyone in the Common Room), Draco flushed and verbally backpedalled. “Ah, I … I _mean_ , I don’t know if I’m still contagious or not, Pansy. It’s best for you to keep your hands to yourself until I know I’m fully recovered.” 

It was, of course, a lie.  Pomfrey had warned him that his susceptibility to others’ emotions was strongest with physical contact, so until Draco’s Shield was robust enough to handle the Great Hall at full capacity, he didn’t plan on letting anyone but Pomfrey lay a finger on him.

Pansy withdrew a little hesitantly.  “Well, alright darling, if you say so. Oh, you must have been _really_ sick to worry about me this much! My poor, poor Draco.” 

On Sunday afternoon, Draco stood dripping with sweat and satisfaction in the middle of Madam Pomfrey’s sitting room as she finally declared his Shields sturdy enough to survive the crowds at meal times. “You should feel so proud, Draco! To be able to get your Empathy under your control in such a short amount of time is nothing short of prodigious. Well _done_! You were truly meant for this,” she praised, beaming. She helped him to the couch and brought him some water.

“Now that you’ve established your baseline energy levels, the trick will be maintaining them. If you don’t feed your Shield Empathy when it gets weakened or cracked, it’ll shatter and leave you vulnerable to Swooning. And since you’re in a boarding school full of teenagers going through puberty, I’m afraid your Shields will suffer a higher-than-average level of emotional chaos.” 

Draco just nodded, knowing this already. He was feeling pretty confident at the moment, so it didn’t bother him. At least, until Pomfrey ruined the mood be saying quite flatly, “You won’t succeed, not all the time. Maybe if the entire student population were just humans, but … Tell me, Mr Malfoy, do you know much about Sentinels? Did your father ever teach you?” 

Draco frowned. “My father burned all our books on Sentinels. He never said anything about them other than they were backward and barbaric. I know standard general knowledge, I suppose, that everyone knows. They have enhanced senses; usually, just one or two, and some of them are physically stronger and have greater stamina than the average person. But, they don't have Empathy, and so they _can't_ be a threat to me—right?"

Pomfrey shook her head. “I'm afraid it's the opposite.  Sentinels do in fact produce psychic energy, though it can't be classified as Empathy as it does not come from a Wellspring and they can't manipulate it.  Let's see how I can explain this.  Umm ... oh! You’ve taken Professor Sinistra’s class on natural science, right?" Draco nodded warily, having no idea where Pomfrey was going with this.

“So think of a Sentinel like a high-pressure system. An Empath is the opposite low-pressure system. Winds will always blow _towards_ the area of low pressure because nature wants to balance itself out. Understand? The stronger the Sentinel, the more energy he will produce.  The more energy there is, the higher the pressure will be, and the stronger that energy will be attracted towards its natural opposite— _you_.” 

Draco was deeply alarmed by this. “You mean any Sentinel out there will just  _know_ I’m an Empath, because their energy will pull towards me?”

“Not necessarily, don't panic!  It mainly depends on the individual strengths of the Sentinel and Empath. If you keep your Shields secure, then your low-pressure system will remain contained and isolated. But even the _tiniest_ of cracks ...” She made a silly whooshing noise, obviously trying to soften her point.

Draco ran a hand through his hair, discomfited. Pomfrey's tone was overly-bright.  "But I wouldn't worry too much, Draco.  Your Shield is getting stronger every day, and it should be able to protect you from most of the ' _prevailing winds_ ', so-to-speak.  Just tend to your energy levels properly, and it'll be alright."

But Draco was not an idiot. He could read between the lines—should did not mean _definitely,_ and _most_ certainly didn’t mean all.

That night, back in the Serpent House common room, Draco tried to finish what remained of his assignments for the week.  But he kept getting distracted by brooding thoughts. 

There were a handful of Sentinel students in residence at Hogwarts, and Draco could identify each one. It had been a hobby of his, not too long ago, to bully them and make them act like the barbarians his father always said they were. It gave Draco a sense of superiority whenever he could write to his father of boorish Sentinels, and it soothed the secret jealousy he held over their superhero-like abilities. 

The young Empath stared into the fire, tapping a pen absently against his open history textbook. Of all the Sentinels Draco had targeted, none had earned his negative attentions more than St. Potter of Lion House, son of the famous Sentinel martyrs and a newly awakened Five-Senser Sentinel. Draco had taken great pleasure in bullying Potter even before he'd come Online, trying to bring out the worst in him at every turn. 

But no more.  Sentinels were dangerous to him, to the lifestyle and freedom he valued.  Draco couldn't afford to get near any one of them anymore, least of all Potter.  To use Madam Pomfrey’s metaphor, Harry Potter was a veritable _windstorm_ of trouble, and Draco wasn’t about to open any windows.  

Draco turned back to the history essay he was supposed to be finishing. So, it was decided—he'd avoid Potter. It wouldn’t be too difficult.  Potter hated him, they were in different Houses, and they only had two classes together, in which they sat on opposite sides of the room. 

Easy.

 

•–•–•

 

Harry stared unwaveringly at Malfoy across the Great Hall, drumming his fingers techily on the tabletop even after Hermione smushed them against the wood with her spoon. 

He’d been watching Malfoy all day, ever since he’d glanced at up at breakfast and _finally_ seen the blond occupying his usual chair in-between Parkinson and Zabini at the Serpent table.

To all appearances, Malfoy had recovered completely from his sudden illness and was back to normal. But Harry wasn’t fooled. He could see through Malfoy's playacting—his body language had closed off subtly, and his expressions no longer sat quite right on his face. There were dark circles under his eyes.  Ron may call him crazy, Hermione may call him obsessive, but Harry _knew_ that something had changed.  Malfoy was different, somehow. 

The members of Serpent House were a tactile bunch—Pansy Parkinson was always putting her arm through Malfoy's or putting her head in his lap or petting his hair.  Blaise Zabini was overly-physical with everyone, slinging arms over shoulders or around waists and leaning too close when speaking.  Malfoy himself was quite affectionate with those he was close to.

But ever since his week-long absence, Malfoy was careful to keep a five-centimetre gap between himself and his friends.  Harry could tell it was deliberate because anytime one of them made to close that gap, Malfoy would shy away with well-timed stretches or not-so-subtle shifting.  Once, when Zabini went to grab his shoulder, Malfoy actually lunged across the Serpent table just to avoid him, making a show of grabbing a green apple from the fruit basket in front of Theodore Nott (even though there was a fruit basket right in front of him).  Something was up.  Malfoy was way too protective of his personal space, and Harry wanted to know _why._

He wanted to know why Malfoy left early at meal times, never staying longer than ten minutes even when it forced him to forgo his impeccable table manners and shovel food down quickly.  He wanted to know why Malfoy was suddenly barely on time to all his classes, even though he was the first one out of his chair after the bell rang. 

And he _really_ wanted to know why, upon seeing Harry approaching him from the other end of the library this afternoon, Malfoy had immediately turned heel and walked the other way.  No insults, no physicality, not even a sneer—just gone. 

“I’m telling you, Malfoy’s avoiding me,” Harry blurted out, unable to help himself. It was getting late, and he was tired, and he was so damn curious.

Hermione dug her spoon into his hand a little harder, not taking her eyes off her book. “I don’t care, and shut up.” 

“Mate, you’re obsessing,” Ron added warily from Harry’s other side. “I don’t know why you care, but if it’s true and he’s avoiding you—call it a blessing and leave it at that!” 

“Bloody Serpents. Screw the Serpents! Lemme copy off your homework, ‘Mione,” Seamus said.

“Malfoy is a horrible bully,” Neville agreed. “The less we see of him, the better.”

And, damn them, Harry _knew_ that—he really did!  He was aware that Malfoy was a git, and should be glad that he was finally taking the hint and leaving Harry alone. But there was a part of him—the big, Sentinel part—that was quite rankled.  And Harry was bollocks at controlling the Sentinel. 

It was a huge problem because the more the Sentinel got riled up, the more powerful his senses became—and Harry couldn’t control those on a _good_ day, let alone a day he spent fixated on someone else. He'd Zoned twice, although thankfully not deep enough to need Pomfrey. Ron’s timely use of Sentinel smelling-salts had prevented anyone from finding out and getting Harry another mark in Sinistra's book. 

“You have to stop letting him get to you, mate,” Ron advised. “I know you can’t help what your senses latch onto, but we reckon you’re not helping yourself by being so preoccupied with him all the time. Just try to forget about him, okay?” 

 _No. Not okay,_ Harry thought as his energy swirled around him unhappily. “Yeah Ron, got it …” 

Harry watched as Malfoy wandered off in the direction of Serpent House with his friends, losing sight as they disappeared down the stairs.  He imagined the slow walk down to the dungeons, taking Malfoy's leisurely pace into account, and when at last he figured Malfoy had to be inside his House, Harry's Sentinel finally settled down.

Crawling into bed that night, Harry resolved to try harder to control himself—or at the very least, try to keep his preoccupation to himself.  If he could distract himself, maybe by continuing his search for the Mystery Guide, the Sentinel might forget about Malfoy.

But as the week wore on, it was clear that his efforts to distract his Sentinel were piss-poor at best, and disastrous at worst.  Malfoy continued to ignore and avoid Harry blatantly in all their shared classes, and Harry continued to be upset by it.  Ron ended up having to use smelling salts on him three more times by the end of the week, and on Friday Harry missed all his afternoon classes to steal some time in the Room of Requirement—a sensory deprivation room located on the Seventh Floor.  It was an absolute paradise for a Sentinel in crisis, though its use was strictly prohibited without the knowledge or permission of Professor Sinistra.  But that didn't matter because Harry had the best friends of all time.  Seamus picked the lock for him while Ron kept a lookout and Neville gave support.

“The more agitated you get, the less control you have over yourself,” Neville reminded him softly as he led Harry inside the room and helped him into the sensory deprivation tub, already full of saltwater. He placed a blindfold over Harry's eyes. “Clear your mind and don’t think about … _you-know-who.”_

“Yeah,” Seamus added. “Instead ponder on that mystery Guide who’s out there somewhere, _that’s_ a more pleasant thought to think. It ought’ a set your Sentinel straight.” He set the sound-cancelling headphones over his head, and Harry heard no more. He let the natural buoyancy of the salt water sweep him off his feet and onto his back, where he floated weightlessly.

The Room of Requirement could turn off Harry’s sight, and hearing, and other senses—but it couldn’t turn off his brain. What his noble friends kept forgetting was that Harry couldn’t control his Sentinel anymore than he could control his senses. Draco Malfoy _always_ caught his Sentinel’s attention and had from the moment he’d come Online. Harry sighed. Probably from long before that, if he was honest with himself.  From the moment he’d met Malfoy, Harry had always placed significance on his words and actions. Malfoy was his antagonist, his villain, and their interactions helped shape who Harry was as a person.  He constantly wanted to impress Malfoy, to show him up and humiliate him and maybe change him a little bit, too.  Malfoy riled him up as no one had ever before, not even Dudley.

As Harry floated listlessly, he tried to do what his friends suggested—he thought about the Guide who had unintentionally touched his mind with their Empathy. The feeling he’d got from that brief contact had slipped through his fingers; he couldn't remember what it had felt like to be perfectly in balance anymore. He just knew he’d give _anything_ to have that feeling back now. He was sick and tired of everyone calling him obsessed, of feeling out-of-control and unbalanced, of being _stuck_ on goddamned Draco Malfoy. It all seemed to come back to Malfoy. He _hated_ that stupid, arrogant—! 

_No, nope, not thinking about Malfoy. Let’s see, Guides, guides … um … what do I know about them? They have Empathy. They can balance a Sentinel’s senses. I need one to fucking live like a normal bloody person … and the only one I have access to doesn’t want anyone to know who they are.  Perfect._

Alone in that dark abyss, Harry wondered if he’d ever truly feel in control of his life again.

 

•–•–•

 

For the first time since he’d collapsed in King’s Cross Station, Draco Malfoy felt in control of his life.  He was acting more like himself, his friends had stopped asking questions about his supposed illness, and he was all caught up with his schoolwork.  Best of all, no one even suspected his secret.  He wrote his Grandpapa and parents with a smile that weekend, penning lies and platitudes.  Honestly, if he'd known that actually _keeping_ a secret could be so fun, he would have tried it long before now.  He'd always had a flair for the dramatic.

His life had indeed returned to normal, but there was one thing that did not change—he still met with Madam Pomfrey every weekday evening at seven for a private lesson.  She had taken to teaching wholeheartedly and was very invested in her pedagogy and her pupil's growth.

Her enthusiasm was a bit annoying, actually.  There was always something more to learn, according to Pomfrey, and she herself had begun to devour library books on Empathy and Guide training.  It was drawing attention to her, which Draco didn't like—he overheard Professor Sinistra in the library one day, asking Pomfrey if she was having issues with her Empathy.  Pomfrey could expose their meetings if she weren't careful!

"My family traditionally has kept ourselves apart from the Tower, preferring to educate our Empaths in the techniques developed by our predecessors over fifty generations rather than get standardised Tower training," Pomfrey mentioned one night, surrounded by a pile of books.  "But just teaching you one point-of-view would be a disservice to you, I think, when there's so much more out there!  It's really quite fascinating," she added.

Draco didn't much care about the pros and cons of one methodology over another, to be truthful.  And he absolutely refused to learn anything about Sentinels, he made himself clear enough about _that._  Still, he was learning a lot from Pomfrey and her many books, and his Empathy was getting stronger all the time.  He'd formed his Shield enough times by now to be aware of it constantly, a gentle buzzing thing that lay just at the edges of his peripherals.  He could sense it whenever it started to crack, and strengthen it as needed.  He was doing much better at handling the normal physic noise of the student body, learning to let it flow around him without focusing on it or being overwhelmed. 

The only area he didn't see improvement in, much to his frustration, was tensile strength.  Madam Pomfrey could still out-muscle him, so-to-speak, and pop his bubble with her Empathy.  It was _maddening._

“Look at me, sweating like a marathoner,” she’d exclaimed one chilly evening in early October, wiping her forehead with a towel. “It’s getting harder and harder to penetrate your defences, Draco. I think you're getting close to your peak strength! What do you say?” 

“I _think_ ,” Draco drawled from where he lay on the couch, fighting to get his breath back as he rebuilt his bubble from the umpteenth time, “that I grow tired of the same exercise over and over.” He sat up, shooting Pomfrey an unhappy look. “My Shield is fine as it is now! It _never_ pops outside this room. I don’t feel people’s emotions anymore, and I don’t get headaches. This isn’t useful anymore!” He was not _whining,_ thank you very much.

“On the contrary,” Pomfrey advised, hands going to her hips. “I’ve told you this before, but the more you rebuild your Shield, the greater strength it will possess. Your elasticity alone has improved two-fold since we’ve started these _exercises,_ so you’re welcome!”

Grumblings aside, throughout the remainder of his autumn days Draco enjoyed a protected, bubbled existence, free from the emotional stress and backwash of school life. It wasn’t perfect—Pansy still didn’t understand why she was no longer allowed to touch him, and Potter had tried to confront Draco on numerous occasions as to why he was “avoiding him.” (“ _Pft,_ are you _pining,_ Potter?” Malfoy had sneered at the same time as he’d frantically shovelled energy into his Shields, protecting himself from the wall of power that was Harry Potter. “Sorry, but I’m not bent like you. Go get yourself a boyfriend and leave me out of your stalker-ish fantasies, would you?”) But it was as perfect as Draco needed it to be, and he was content to carry on with his life in this way for the rest of his school days.

But then, as they were wont to do, things changed.  One November night, something happened that destroyed everything Draco had worked so hard to obtain—his power, his secret, and his freedom.

One snowy evening in November, Draco Malfoy saved Harry Potter's life.

 

•–•–•

 

Draco shivered and wrapped his scarf around his neck more tightly.  He'd been up in the school's observatory, finishing up his weekly lunar chart for Professor Sinistra's class, because apparently, she'd thought it was a good idea to make her students stay up late and draw the moon phase every day as an assignment.  Because nothing showed dedication to the Earth Sciences quite like a pair of frozen bollocks.  

Thinking about the nice warm fire in Serpent House, Draco decided to take a shortcut back down to the cellar dormitories via an old servant's staircase he'd discovered his second year at Hogwarts.  No one ever used it, and the halls were deserted anyway since it was so close to curfew.  The only sounds were his footsteps and his chattering teeth and ... murmuring?

Draco was nearing the 7th-floor landing when he heard the unmistakable sound of frantic cursing.  Intrigued about who else was wandering the halls at this time of night, Draco approached the doorway.

But three steps in, Draco froze, still out-of-sight of the corridor.  A fine tremor went down his Shield, and he suddenly felt alert and fixated on an unknown spot beyond the wall.  He listened to the sounds of cursing and heavy, dragging footsteps.  His entire being was filled with a sense of purpose, though he didn't know what that purpose was.

“Come on, come on, we’re almost there … stay with me, listen to the sound of my voice, _please, Harry,_ move your feet!” It was Weasley's voice, Draco realised, who must be half-dragging Potter down the corridor.  Judging from the loud thump that Draco heard not a moment later, it seemed Weasley's legs were done supporting Potter's dead weight, and they both fell to the floor.   “NO, _dammit_ Harry! Snap out of it! Just stop listening to whatever you’re listening to, and focus on my voice! Come on, mate, you can beat this!”

Draco’s heart raced in his chest. He inched forward until he was plastered against the wall to the right of the open doorway, nose brushing the stone.  Harry Potter was Zoned out in the middle of a deserted hall, five floors away from the Hospital Wing with only one dimwitted Weasel for help. And from what Draco felt, Potter was in _deep._

Draco heard the pop of a cork, and then more cursing. “Shit, it’s still not working! Oh, _fuck,_ this is bad. I have to …” Weasley grunted, apparently trying to heft Potter back up on his dead feet, but he’d lost his strength. Draco heard them fall back to the floor. 

The tremors that shook the walls of Draco’s Shield strengthened. His Empathy was pulling itself out of his wellspring without Draco's doing, a sensation he'd only felt once before—the night he'd passed out in the Entrance Hall. It felt _alive._ It was agitated, pressing against his bubble in a bid to get out. Draco sunk to his trembly knees to prevent himself from moving. Sweat beaded on his brow. There was a growing sense of something through the wall, some dark, sucking black hole that was dense and magnetic and dangerous.  He had to hold back his Empathy, which wanted to reach out beyond his Shield and dive inside.

Which was a horrible idea. Dumb Empathy.

Weasley paced, coming into Draco's view a few times as he seemed to argue with himself. “Shit. okay.  I’m going to get Professor Sinistra; she’ll know what to do. Harry, if you can hear me, I’m getting help, okay? Just keep trying to snap out of it!” He then turned and sprinted down the hall.  His footsteps grew distant, and then silence reigned once again.

Draco’s Empathy was becoming more insistent, striking his bubble’s inner walls with more force. His body moved without his permission, leaping out from behind the doorway and into the hallway proper. He gasped. 

It was not the sight of Potter Zoned out in the middle of the floor that frightened Draco, but the _feel_ of him. Even through his Shield, Draco could sense the terrible vacuum where Potter’s power should be. It was like a vast, gaping sinkhole, and it called to Draco’s Empathy with dark promise. His instincts told him that if something weren't done at once, Potter’s mind would be lost to it forever. 

Draco staggered forward and fell to his knees by Potter’s side. He couldn’t take his eyes from the boy’s limp form.  What should he do?  He hated Potter, but he didn't want him to die—and was that a thing?  Did Sentinels actually die from Zones, or was that a media exaggeration?  He was starting to regret so vehemently rejecting Madam Pomfrey's attempts to teach him this rubbish.  Maybe if he knew, he wouldn't be panicking quite so much.  

Maybe Potter was dying, maybe he wasn't.  Maybe Draco could do something, here and now, to help either way. Maybe he could ... Guide him.   _Shit, okay, I guess I'm doing this._ Desperately trying to think back on what the Guidebook had said about this kind of thing, Draco reached out a tentative hand and placed it delicately on top of Potter's.

The change was instant.  His mind went foggy. His Empathy sang. He suddenly knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, what he needed to do.  He had no doubts. He knew he could fish out Potter’s mind from the blackness that surrounded it and hold it close. He suddenly wanted nothing more.

As natural as breathing, and like he’d done it countless times before, Draco opened his Shield and let his Empathy do the task it was aching to do. It stretched out, twice, thrice as long as it had ever done before, right into the black hole of Potter’s power. Inside was a hurricane of clamouring pain and darkness, but Draco was _strong—_ he hooked Potter’s mind like it was a minnow and reeled it out molasses-slow, up and up until he cradled the whole of Potter’s powerful mind in his empathic hands. 

It was heady and incredible, all that power flowing freely into Draco’s brain and saturating him with strength and pleasure. Draco’s Empathy, in turn, wove in and out of Potter’s mind like a needle through a cloth, smoothing it out and stitching it back together.

Potter came out of the Zone as gently as waking up from a dream, making a contented noise in the back of his throat and turning his face into towards the unknown source of his comfort. Draco looked down at him in awe, never having seen such a peaceful look on Potter's face.  His heart skipped a beat.  

It ended too quickly.  There came the sound of distant running footsteps, forcing Draco to fight the fogginess in his brain and snap out of it.  Potter was stirring into wakefulness, and his would-be rescuers would be here any second.  Draco would be _damned_ before they found him here.

With a muffled cry of effort, Draco yanked his Empathy back behind the walls of his Shield, which he closed iron-tight.  The pain of severing his connection to Potter hurt as badly as if he'd just severed his own limb—and Potter felt it too, judging from the fact that he groaned in pain and his eyes fluttered.  The Sentinel had been jarred awake.  Weasley shouted Potter’s name from around the corner.  There was no time to linger, to mourn the loss of connection.

Draco ran. He ran back into the servant’s stairwell, down the five flights of stairs to the ground level, and into a hidden alcove near the Biology classroom. He sat there in the dark, panting until everything caught up to him at once—the fear for Potter's life, the joy of ultimate connection, the pain of loss and fear for his own life.  It was all too much, and Draco burst into sobs.

He was _ruined._   There was no way he'd ever be able to forget what it felt like to be connected to a Sentinel, to not want it again with a desperate passion. All his months of hard work were for naught—from here on out, all roads led to Grandpapa and the Tower.  Either Draco would go crazy and throw himself at Potter or any Sentinel that breathed near him, or he would go crazy trying to resist the urge and end up having a Swoon for the record books.

That is if he didn't end up in Grandpapa's hands within the hour.  There was no way Potter hadn’t felt his mind, hadn’t seen him with sleep-slitted eyes. He’d tell Professor Sinistra all about him, and she'd call the Tower first thing in the morning.  His whole life was over.

Draco hid away from the world in that little alcove and cried for a long time.

•–•–•

 

 


	5. Consequence

5

•–•–•

Draco didn’t get back to Serpent House until the early hours of the morning, physically and emotionally exhausted. He collapsed into bed and didn’t bother waking up for his morning classes, figuring he wouldn’t be allowed to stay in school anyway so what was the point? 

But after waking at eleven and just lying in bed awaiting his doom, Draco grew admittedly bored. His stomach started growling too, and since when did he become so passive as to take shit lying down? If there was going to be a big dramatic confrontation, then it suited him to have it in front of everyone and be done with it. Preferably on a full stomach. 

So precisely at noon, Draco marched defiantly into the Great Hall, his head held high, and body braced for anyone from Potter to Sinistra or even his _Grandpapa_ to set upon him. 

But no one did. Sitting in the middle of the Serpent table and finally granting clearance for his nose to descend back into middle-distance, Draco noticed that no one was looking at him at all. There were no whispers or side-eyes, no funny glances from teachers or comments from students. Everything was … normal. 

Draco swallowed reflexively and then allowed his eyes to wander over to the Lion table. To his bafflement, Potter wasn’t even _looking_ his way; instead, his head was bent low with his housemates, and he seemed to be in deep conversation. He stayed that way for the remaining half-hour of lunch. Not that Draco kept checking. 

“Well, look what the mongoose dragged in,” Blaise drawled around a pomegranate his mother had shipped him. He only liked _Mediterranean_ fruits, the lush. “Did you have a fun night?” 

“What?” 

“You didn’t get in 'til early morning, Drakey-poo. Sewing your seeds in exotic gardens, were you? How deliciously scandalous. Who’s the tramp?” Blaise asked mean-spiritedly, enjoying Draco’s spluttering.

Pansy swatted at Blaise and then leaned over to tut at Draco. “Were you ill again? You looked so peaky this morning I didn’t have the heart to wake you.”

Draco gave her the best blushing-virgin face he could muster. “You were in the boy’s dormitory? I do _declare_ … poor Nott. Do go easier on the lad, Pans.” 

“Oh, tosh. You must be feeling fine if you have the energy to be cheeky,” Pansy replied and went back to her breakfast—deliberately not looking at a flushed Theodore, who was being set upon by a sharp-smiled Blaise. 

Friends’ attention so redirected, Draco grabbed an apple and left the Great Hall, feeling like he’d dodged a bullet for the second time in a row. He’d been so _sure_ Potter had seen him last night … but the Sentinel didn’t even glance up at Draco as he walked past the Lion House table. He didn’t _know._

Victory felt pointless.  Inside him was an emptiness that had never been there before, like a cavernous hole that had been carved out by the surging tides of Potter's inherent power.  He was hyperaware of this incompleteness, even as he tried desperately to distract himself with other things as he wandered down to Professor Flitwick's social science class.  It wasn't _fair._  Potter didn't know what happened last night, which meant he got to survive their encounter in total ignorant bliss while Draco got to feel like a whole piece of his soul was missing.  

Oh, it was so typical _Potter_ he could scream.  Walking around in blissful, possibly deliberate ignorance of the effect he had on people, whether it was from his enormous Sentinel power or his fame or his roughshod good looks or—

Strike that last thought.  Potter was sloppy and unkempt and decidedly un-handsome.  Draco had apparently lost his marbles, and it was all Potter's fault.  He rubbed at the phantom ache in his chest and thought, _Don't think of Potter, don't think of stupid hair or his fantastic power or the way he looks when he's unconscious ..._

 _Ugh,_  disgusting.  What was wrong with him? Draco dusted off one of the stone benches lining the walls outside Flitwick's classroom and sat down petulantly.  He was a little early to class, so he spent a few minutes trying to strengthen his Shield and settle his unhappy Empathy within it.

He'd been wrong, that chilly autumn evening when he'd told Madam Pomfrey that there was nothing more for him to learn, that Draco was as strong as he needed to be.  He could not have been more wrong; or any less prepared for the events in the 7th-floor corridor.

Whatever else he may be, Draco was a Serpent. Serpents were known for their ambitions, and Draco could feel his rising now—he wanted more power, more control, more _everything._ He needed to be stronger.  The road he thought he'd already travelled was only now opening up before him.  From this point, he'd need to change his attitude about Sentinels. He could never  _like_ them, god no, but he _had_ to be open to learning more about them.  He needed to arm himself against the brutes with knowledge.  He never wanted to be put in a situation like yesterday ever again.

Of course, all this provided he could survive the week without becoming a depraved lunatic.

Students were beginning to arrive at the classroom by then, and Draco had to deliberately turn his head away as Potter and his gang turned the corner and began their approach.  He groaned inwardly, wanting to run his perfectly-manicured nails down his own face in punishment as his body ached with intense sense memories and his Empathy slumped against the side of his bubble like a swooning Victorian heroine.

This week was going to be _hell._

 

•–•–•

 

Harry was in _heaven._ His senses rang in complete harmony, with an intensity he wasn’t used to feeling from all of them. They were dialled up, but the surge of sense data didn’t once overwhelm him or put him out of balance. 

He'd barely slept the previous night, too elated at having been saved by his beautiful, miraculous Guide and high on his balanced senses to sleep. Professor Sinistra had been so impressed by him supposedly pulling himself out of a Zone that he hadn't even earned himself a red mark to bring him down.

Around five AM, he gave up sleep as a bad job and went running in the football pitch.  His run was transcendent.  Snow glittered pink in the dawn’s light, and each cold breath of air burned his lungs in the best way. He heard the snow sparkle and smelled ozone and saw on each tree a masterpiece mural of frost, but he never once Zoned or felt pain. He felt strong, almost _invincible,_ and it made his Sentinel near-insane with the desire to find the person responsible.

His Guide, the person who was made just for him, who had reached down through the hurricane of pain and terror in Harry’s Zoned mind and plucked him out as easily as a ripe fruit. He ached with the need to find the sweet, soothing energy that had cradled his mind so gently and made Harry feel so safe, like how he always imagined his mother’s embrace might feel.

He was probably in love, just a little bit. 

After the most intense shower of his life, Harry went to breakfast and spent the entire time regaling Ron and Hermione with the salacious details of his rescue. (He’d tried to tell Ron the night before, but Ron had been irritated at him for almost dying and shut him up with a pillow to the face.) 

“… _Wow_ ,” Hermione had said, obviously fighting the stars in her eyes. She was a closet romantic who liked to tell herself she was too logical for such things. “Whoever this Guide is, they really saved your life, Harry."

Harry made no effort to hide the stars in _his_ eyes.  " I _know,_ I know.  They were incredible!  I just ... I wish they'd stayed with me a bit longer, yeah?  Long enough to let me _see_ them.  Would that have been so terrible?"

Ron snorted.  "I still think you're full of it, mate.  There was no one in that corridor with you when I got there, and wouldn't Dr Sinistra have felt a Guide around even if they'd been hiding?  Face it—you pulled some luck out of your arse and got _yourself_ out of that Zone."

"That's not possible!"  Harry pressed.  "That Zone was the worse one I've ever experienced before; it was like I was literally being sucked into a black hole.  Everything was dark, and I didn't know anything except pain.  I couldn't have got myself out of something like that."  He took a moment to blink away the sense memories, and then he was looking up at his friends again with conviction.  "I felt the Guide's presence, I felt their Empathy.  It was like ... well, the only word that comes to mind is _angelic._  Literally like being pulled out of the darkness by a winged light.  But, er, that sounds too corny ..."

Ron looked a mix between impressed and embarrassed.  "Like a trashy romance novel, mate.  But Guide or no Guide, I'm glad you're alright."

Hermione clasped one of Harry's hands in hers.  "Oh, me too Harry!—I just wonder whether this will be a problem for you in the long run."

Harry frowned. “What do you mean? I feel better than I ever have! I'm perfectly in balance.” 

"I know, but unless you can find this Guide again, you're going to crash at some point—and you said your senses are all the way up, so it's going to be a long way down from here.  What if you Zone that badly again, only this time your mysterious angel isn't around to save you?  Oh, I can't bear the thought!"  She was sniffly through the rest of breakfast, despite Harry's attempts to appease her.

And frankly, that _did_ manage to put a damper on his morning, though he rebounded quickly. It made the Sentinel more determined to sniff out his lovely rescuer. Being a teenage boy, Harry could picture all the pleasing forms his saviour might take, and he spent all day dreaming about secret encounters in dark corridors, wrapping his arms around a slim form—Mr. Potter—and burying his face in the crook of a neck— _Mr Potter—_ where the scent of apples and wool were strongest…

“Mr Potter!” 

Harry gasped, startled out of his imaginings by Professor Snape’s glass stirring wand as it rapped against the corner of his desk. “Have you at last gone brain-dead, _Sentinel Potter,_ or are you finally going to burn off that unruly mop you call hair? Turn down your Bunsen burner!”

The class snickered as Harry finally noticed the tall tower of flames rising from his unchecked burner and turned down the gas. “Sorry, sir,” he mumbled, embarrassed. 

Snape sneered at him, opening up his discipline notebook and ready to make another black mark by Harry’s name. He was a known disparager of the Sentinel community, and it seemed he nursed a particular hatred for Five-Senser Sentinels like Harry and his late father, James Potter. “Zoning … in … class,” Snape announced out loud as he wrote the words on the referral slip. “…Whilst handling … _dangerous materials …_ ” 

“It wasn’t a Zone sir,” Harry gritted out. “Just lost in thought. I’m fine.”

“Don’t lie,” Snape sneered. He ripped out the slip and handed it to Harry in two fingers. “Clean up your laboratory station and then take this to Madam Pomfrey,” he commanded. Harry felt his stomach sink—to get another mark so soon after the last one would be _begging_ for Sinistra’s ire.

“Please, sir—“ Hermione interrupted, raising her hand. “He’s not lying. He only recently had an excellent adjustment; his dials are all normal—“ 

“Ten points will be removed from Lion House, Ms Granger, for talking out-of-turn. Mr Potter, kindly get out of my sight.” 

Hastily divvying up his materials for his neighbours to clean up, Harry slung his bag over his shoulder and slunk out of Chemistry. It was nice to get out of a room with so many biting aromas … like chemicals and cleaners and Professor Snape’s unwashed hair. 

When he arrived at the hospital wing, Madam Pomfrey only needed one perfunctory sweep of her Empathy to see he was fine. “More than fine, really,” she commented keenly, eyebrows raised. “Your senses are all up, yet neatly balanced. Not what I’m used to seeing from you, Mr Potter. Do you have anything you want to tell me?”

Harry rubbed the back of his neck, trying to look natural. “Oh, well … I’ve started to get the hang of that heart-rhythm meditation that Professor Sinistra is teaching me. I can clear my mind … and … you know, take deep breaths and stuff.” He breathed in deep and slow for her, to prove his point—

And froze. 

He blew out the air and breathed again, this time more discerning. There was the usual permeation of clean linens and antiseptic … but wafting in-between the stronger smells was the faint hint of something familiar. 

 _Apples and wool …!_ His mysterious saviour had been in this room. His Guide. The Sentinel’s presence surged forward like a fox detecting slight movement under the snow. Still and silent, poised on edge and waiting to pounce …

Madam Pomfrey was startled when Harry abruptly turned and started sniffing in earnest, walking along the neatly made beds to track the smell. It was faint, but still detectable, so it couldn’t have been that long since his Guide had been here. 

“Mr Potter, what on earth—“

“Have there been a lot of patients in the Hospital Wing today, Madam Pomfrey?” 

The Empath took a few abortive steps forward, confused. “What?” 

Harry gave up the beds as a lost cause and went to snuffle over by the supplies cabinet. “Who was here right before me? Like … um … within the past hour or so?” 

“Really now, that’s hardly your business,” she replied tersely, and then shrieked, “Get your head out of the used-linens basket! That is highly unsanitary!” 

Harry sneezed out the smell of body soil and vomit, then strode purposefully to Pomfrey’s corner office and stuck his head in for a good inhale, ignoring her outraged shriek. 

It was stronger in here. Something his Guide had touched, had kept close, was in this room. His Sentinel wanted to tear the place apart until he found it. He took one step inside.

Pomfrey’s hand gripped the back of his blazer and yanked him back. “Either you explain yourself right this minute, or I will give you that mark after all young man,” she barked. The Sentinel scoffed at the idea of a meek little school Empath stopping him, but Harry had more sense than that. He turned to look sheepishly at her. 

“I’m sorry. It’s just that I found someone’s—er— _scarf_ and I don’t know whose it is. I just noticed that there’s something here that smells similar, and I was wondering if I could maybe find it and …”

Pomfrey looked highly unconvinced. “Absolutely not! Is a scarf so important that you would swan around my ward like you owned it? We have a Lost & Found, be gone with you and give that scarf to Mr Filch. I don’t want to see you back here unless you’re Zoning, understand?” 

The Sentinel aura surged forward and bared its figurative teeth. Pomfrey was deliberately keeping him from his Guide, hiding something precious away in her office. He felt himself starting to loom ominously. It was all he could do to wrench his Sentinel back under control.

“Yes, ma’am. Sorry.” He let himself get kicked out of the Hospital Wing and managed to walk out without a second glance. 

He headed outside, weather and temperature be damned. He needed to kick some footballs around until his feet were numb.

 

•–•–•

Poppy clutched a hand to her breast, feeling like her heart was going to thump right out of her chest. _Overwhelming Sentinel aura on that one …!_ She’d thought she was going to Swoon from the force of it.

Counting to twenty just to be sure she was out of range of Potter’s Sentinel hearing, Poppy walked calmly into her office (she was _not_ going to run, damnit) and retrieved the Guidebook from where Draco had accidentally left it sitting on the armrest of her visitor’s chair. Clutching the book and ignoring the odd impulse to smell it, Poppy walked around the desk, through the concealed door behind it and into her rooms.

Draco was sitting cross-legged in a pile of library books, reading. It was quite an unusual sight, as Draco had shown only minimal interest in the things Poppy researched before now, and barely tolerated the topic of Sentinels. He had insisted many times that practising with his Empathy and getting stronger was more useful to him than reading a bunch of irrelevant books. 

To see his nose buried in a book about Sentinel power now secretly pleased her. Poppy didn’t know why Harry had been sniffing after Draco—she couldn’t even be sure it _was_ Draco—but she decided not to bring it up. 

“Good afternoon,” Poppy greeted cheerfully as she closed the door and went to put the Guidebook down in the pile of library books. “You left this in the office.” 

Draco didn’t take his eyes away from his reading, though he did tilt his head slightly and say, “Oh, that was on purpose. I’ve finished reading it, so you may have it back.”

Poppy blinked in surprise, then smiled. She sat down on the rug across from her pupil. “Oh, did you finally finish the entire book? I wonder if it enticed you to look further …”

Leaving his finger in to mark his place, Draco closed the book and looked contemplatively down at the title. _The World of the Sentinel._ “I suppose …” He cleared his throat and looked at Poppy. “I was interested in learning more about Zones. What exactly happens when Sentinels Zone, and how do Guides bring them out of it?”

Pomfrey propped her head up on a hand, giving her student a coy look. “Oh …? Taking an interest in your teacher’s speciality, are you? How flattering.” Draco’s flat face in response made her giggle. “I must say, though, I’m pleased you’re finally asking more questions about Sentinels. You’re usually so touchy on the subject!” 

Draco’s face was unusually severe as he stared back down at the book cover. “I need to know about consequences, Madam Pomfrey. What happens to a Sentinel when he Zones? Can they die, if no Guide helps them?  Is a Zoning Sentinel more dangerous to me than a normal Sentinel? Will I feel any ...  _urges_  to help them out?”

Poppy was horrified at the specificity of his questions. “Draco … did you see one of our student Sentinels Zone?” 

“No! No, I—” 

Poppy interrupted, in full panic-mode. She was halfway to rising before she’d even realised it. “What happened? Are they safe?”

Draco rose with her. “No, Madam Pomfrey—it was just, um McGregor, and smelling salts sorted him out right away. Quite a minor thing. It just got me _thinking_ , is all.”

Blowing out a breath, Poppy sunk back down in relief. She gave her student’s questions proper thought. “Zones can indeed be deadly things, Draco. For the Sentinel, of course, but also for Guides. You must _never_ touch a Zoned Sentinel, do you understand?” 

“Y-yes.” Draco was white, and Poppy tried to feel around the edges of his emotions because she _knew_ he was hiding something. But she was rubbish at Empathic empathy, and his Shield kept everything tightly contained anyway.

She sighed, discontented. The only thing she could do was teach, it seemed. “A Zone happens when a Sentinel hyper-focuses on a sensation or a sound. All other senses go offline, and the Sentinel is trapped and unable to free themselves. Normally it is only one sense that goes haywire, but stronger Sentinels can get lost in two or more. The most dangerous and life-threatening Zones of all can only happen to Five-Sensers—when all five senses lose control. The resulting flood of sensory data overwhelms the brain and causes the Sentinel to shut down. It can lead to anything from a loss of feeling or coma, to death.”

Draco swallowed, unable to prevent a shiver. “How does Empathy help them?”

“Remember what I told you that Sentinels are our complete opposites, and opposites attract? Well, a Sentinel's psychic energy will struggle fiercely during a Zone, and create a twisting, vortex-like energy field around its Sentinel.” Poppy twirled her index finger around in a whirlpool motion. “It’s not really understood _why_ this happens, as it can make the Zones worse, but some scientists believe that it is an adaptation to help Sentinels survive. By creating a black hole, so-to-speak, the energy field can pull in the Empathy of nearby Guides and have a chance to break free.”

Draco’s eyes were distant like he was remembering something. Poppy was even surer now that Draco had experienced something. “So … these vortexes can force Empathy out of the wellspring? Even behind Shields?” 

Poppy stared directly into her pupil’s eyes, willing him to confide in her. “If the Zone is strong enough, yes. If the Zoning Sentinel is a Five-Senser … then even a full-fledged Guide wouldn’t stand a chance.”

The young Empath ran a hand through his hair, looking frightened and angry. “Why didn’t you tell me this before, when you were talking about Sentinels and _weather systems_?”

“I didn’t want to frighten you! You were already nervous enough about Sentinels. Draco … what _really_ happened? Did you try to get a Sentinel out of a Zone? Does it have anything to do with why Harry Potter was sniffing around my Hospital Wing today?”

A very precise non-expression formed over Draco’s features, though his knuckles turned white where he was clenching them. “I have nothing at all to do with Harry Potter. I told you, it was McGregor, and I only saw him Zone from a distance. Madam Pomfrey, can I borrow some of these books? I can take them back to the library for you when I’m done.”

Poppy hedged for a moment, unsure as to whether she should allow the abrupt subject change, but then relented. She didn’t want to push him or lose his trust. “Yes, of course. I have finished with those anyway; I was holding onto them in case you became interested.” 

Poppy had seen Draco’s politician father in a press photo once, taken inside the House of Lords in Parliament. Draco looked like him at this moment as he stood up with a stack of four books; a mask of politeness like white porcelain placed over his real face. Poppy remained on the floor, looking up at him helplessly.

“I think I will spend time reading tonight. Thank you for the books, ma’am. See you tomorrow?”

“Oh … alright.” Poppy bit her lip as Draco headed towards the door, gently sliding the books in his messenger bag. “Draco …”

The young Empath stopped, his hand on the doorknob.

“… You cannot Guide a Zoned Sentinel, Draco. It’s too dangerous, and you’re not trained, and you could _die._ The _Sentinel_ could die. I need you to understand that. I've been working with you since your Awakening, and I've come to know your Empathy.  You are not a Guiding Empath, it’s _impossible_.” 

Draco’s mouth was a tense line before he suddenly relaxed and turned to look at her. His smile was light and sincere. “I know that. I understand completely, Madam Pomfrey, and I _promise_ you that I didn’t do anything stupid. Trust me, I don’t want anything to do with Potter, or McGregor, or any other Sentinel for that matter. I’m _fine.”_

 

•–•–•

 

No, he was **not** fine. 

 _Shit fuck!_ Draco forced himself to walk normally all the way to his dormitory, clutching the straps of his bag with white fingers. Harry Potter had been sniffing around the Hospital Wing. Why? Had he remembered something from last night? Was he just chasing a specific smell, or was he seeking out Draco particularly?

He didn’t know, and it wasn’t like he could go and ask him. He kept his eyes forward all the way to Serpent House, ignoring the urge to look over his shoulder every five seconds for leaping Sentinels.

Pomfrey’s words swirled in his brain. _You cannot Guide a Zoned Sentinel. You are not a Guiding Empath. It’s impossible._

Except it apparently wasn’t, and he _had,_ and just what the fuck was that supposed to mean, then?!

He violently swiped his Hogsden-Wharton student ID card through the reader outside Serpent House and banged his way in through the double doors when the light flashed green.

He startled Pansy and Theo, who were on one of the black-buttoned couches in the Common Room making out. “Ugh,” he sneered at the two of them. “Do that behind the sports shed like everyone else!”

Ignoring Pansy’s shrieks and Theo’s two-finger salute, Draco stormed his way into his dormitory and landed face-first onto his bed. His Empathy swirled agitatedly around the bubble.

 _This is your fucking fault,_ he told it miserably, making a half-hearted attempt to stuff it all back in his wellspring. _You should just do what you’re told and not go chasing after Sentinels at every turn!_ Chasing after _Potters,_ more like …

Fuck. _What am I going to do?_

The only thing he could do—he pulled the privacy curtains tightly around his bed, got out _The World of Sentinels,_ and began to read.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story will soon change titles! Don't be confused by that when I update next. Also, sorry the chapter count keeps going up. I keep having more to say in each chapter than my outline made room for. Maybe I should just make it a question mark?
> 
> Thanks so much for reading, please consider leaving a comment. Thank you, Happy New Year everybody!


	6. Confrontation

**6**

•–•–•

 

Harry Potter sighed, trying desperately not to show his boredom on his face as he sat on his meditation mat in Professor Sinistra’s office floor and breathed. He didn’t want to be here, he _never_ did. He didn’t get Heart-Rhythm Meditation one bit, and it never helped his senses. 

“ _Concentrate,_ ” Sinistra admonished, and Harry’s spine snapped straight in classic Pavlovian response to the rich alto voice of his mentor. He supposed she had a right to be snappish—in her own words; Harry was the thickest Sentinel she’d ever taught. 

“Slower breaths. From the _abdominals_ , Potter, stop lifting your shoulders!” God, only ten more minutes of this, he could do it … he _wished_ he could do it. Aurora Sinistra didn’t have a Guide, didn’t _need_ one because she could breathe from her abdominals like a champion and settle her senses with sheer ‘oneness of self.’ If Harry could do that … _well,_ he wouldn’t have spent the last three weeks going crazy over some scent that _may or may not_ have belonged to his mysterious Guide.

“All senses are a part of you. Let them breathe with you. Have a greater impact on _them_ than they have upon _you._ ” Pretty words, but how was he supposed to do that? Harry had tried over and over to bring his senses under his control by sheer force of will, but they always ended up doing whatever they wanted. “Let the breath bring them clarity; peace.”

Harry spent the last ten minutes in HRM ignoring the pins and needles in his foot, breathing so slowly he felt he was going to pass out, and refusing to let himself think of anything. When Sinistra let out her last breath and finally stood, Harry felt like he was coming out of a long and unsatisfying nap. He blinked open his eyes, shielding them from the light as they readjusted.

Sinistra walked around to her desk and sat down. Without prompting, Harry took the visitor’s chair across from her and waited. 

“Midterms are next week. Have you been studying?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Harry replied, knowing by now to keep his responses short and to the point. “Hermione’s been tutoring me.” 

“Hm. Good. Such a stressful time can lead to an increase in Zones. What are you doing to protect yourself?” 

“My friends and I built a study tent of sorts, out of scent-neutral blankets—it eliminates background stimuli and allows me to keep my focus on my textbook and my notes. Also, the other students are helping out by enforcing a no-talking policy in the Lion House common area from 7-9pm while I’m studying. I think it might actually raise everyone else’s grades too,” he joked. 

“How nice to have supportive friends. And during Christmas hols, what are your plans?” 

He knew better than to think she was asking about his vacation agenda. “I’ll be at the Burrow, so I’ll have access to Molly Weasley if I Zone.” 

Sinistra grunted in acknowledgement, picking up her pen and jotting a few notes down in her files. “I want you to meditate every morning after waking, and every night before your 7 pm study session. Remember the purpose of HRM. Do not allow your mind to distract you. You will come to see me before you leave for the holiday, understood?” After his assent, Harry was dismissed for the evening. 

Out in the halls, meandering slowly back to Lion House, Harry sighed and loosened his tie. He was tired, limping slightly from his foot still being half-asleep, and his senses were unsettled. It had taken a whole two weeks for his mystery Guide’s work to be undone, and for Harry to go out of balance again. Now he was back to where he started, never knowing what fresh hell his Sentinel would bring each day. Sinistra was worried about him, and even his faculty advisor Professor McGonagall had found an excuse to have him often for tea. He wondered how much longer it would be before they contacted the Tower and sent him away.

His Aunt and Uncle were very anti-Sentinel and had spent Harry’s entire childhood disparaging the ‘barbarians’ at the Tower, labelling his parents as heathen freaks, and filling his head with all sorts of horror stories about Sentinels. Uncle Vernon had, on more than one occasion, threatened to beat some civility in his nephew, though he rarely followed through. At school, his cousin Dudley isolated him from the other students through fear tactics and merciless bullying—though Harry suspected that his classmates would have avoided him _regardless_ , just by his name alone. After all, his parents had been infamous, and everyone knew the story of their love, strength, and untimely end. 

And as much as he tried to not let any of that affect him, to stand tall on his own and just _be himself,_ fear always got in the way. It was a deeply embedded fear, rooted in self-doubt and self-pity. It was a fear that he would never live up to his parent’s legacy—and a fear, stemming from the abuse at the hands of his Aunt and Uncle, that he _would._ It was contradictory and stifling, and Harry tried to avoid thinking about it as much as possible. 

Shaking his head, Harry came out of his reverie and was shocked to see himself near the Hospital Wing, though it was several floors below and on the complete opposite side of the school as Lion House. What had drawn him here, so unconsciously that he hadn’t even noticed? He looked around, and found no one in the halls. Almost everyone would be at dinner by now. Harry imagined that he would be able to hear the jolly conversations and utensils clattering below him if he listened far enough. 

But he wasn’t stupid. Pushing his hearing at a time when he felt so unbalanced was just inviting a Zone. So he shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and kept walking, intending to go past the Hospital Wing and down to dinner himself. Might as well grab a quick bite to eat before going up to his little blanket fort to study. 

He was thinking, as he usually did around the Hospital Wing, of the smell of apples and wool. Even after three weeks, it was still ingrained in his sense memories—so much so that it took him longer than it should've to realise that he _actually smelt it_ , right here. He stopped dead in his tracks. 

Careful not to push himself, Harry breathed in deeply, filtering through the multitude of aromas in the well-traversed hallways until he’d locked onto the familiar smell—it was bright and tangy, like a fresh-cut apple. Harry followed it all the way into the hall that led to the hospital, feeling excitement pull at his heart. What if … what if, at the other end of this scent, his mystery Guide lay in wait? Should he bother to get his hopes up? 

He got his answer when he caught sight of the person at the end of the hall, and that hope died viciously in his chest. 

Draco Malfoy was sitting cross-legged across from Madam Pomfrey’s suite door; eating a green apple and perusing an open book on his lap. Harry stopped and stared for a few moments, and all at once it occurred to him how stupid he'd been.  Apples and wool?  What a common combination.  First off, _everyone_ was wearing their winter uniforms—which consisted of _wool_ trousers and skirts.  Second, apples were on the table at every meal.  How many times had he seen Malfoy snag an apple at mealtimes and wander off?  The idea that apples and wool was a unique scent combination was as stupid as the idea of Draco Malfoy being a secret Guide.

Harry snorted at the very notion of it, which finally caught the attention of the blonde in question.  He looked up.

Malfoy jumped to his feet like he'd just received an electrical shock, dropping his book and stumbling over the straps of his bag. He looked badly startled. “Y-you! What are you doing here?” 

Harry frowned, feeling disappointed and yet inexplicably interested despite himself. “ _Walking_ , as I have every right to be. What about you? It’s awfully suspicious that you’re just sitting here outside the Hospital Wing by yourself. What are _you_ doing?”

Malfoy’s face was very red, and he seemed flustered. He was looking everywhere except at Harry.  “None of your business,” he screeched, slapping his hands on the wall behind him as if to brace himself. “Madam Pomfrey isn’t here, so just … bugger off!”

“If she’s not here, then again— _what_ are _you_ doing here? What’s that you’re reading?” Harry squinted at the book on the floor, trying to make out a title. When Draco quickly kicked his bag over it, he grew even more curious. “What—you ogling a jazz mag or something, Malfoy? Are they too prudish for you to do that over in Serpent House?” 

Instead of blushing further, as Harry had intended, Malfoy’s expression grew flat, and he seemed to be bolstered by Harry’s teasing. “Not that _you’d_ be interested in such things, Potter. I don’t have any copies of _Bent_ laying around, so why don’t you fuck off and raid Finnegan’s stash?”

“Funny,” Harry said dryly. He was also starting to feel better—he hadn’t had a good fight with Malfoy in _ages,_ and he was dying to let off some steam. Even his Sentinel energy, usually swirling around aimlessly, was pulling towards the blond Serpent eagerly. 

But just as Harry was preparing a particularly clever retort _,_ Malfoy grunted and hurriedly gathered his belongings. He turned to leave _just like that_ , without looking at Harry or saying another word or _anything._  

Fury loomed up in him along with the Sentinel. “Where are you going?! _Hey_ , Malfoy!” Harry took a few steps forward. They’d barely talked at all, why was the prat leaving so soon?

But Malfoy’s feet must have been asleep or something, because his knees went all wobbly and he tripped, staggering against the wall. “None of your business, you bloody idiot!” He shrieked, clapping a hand on the back of his head even though Harry didn’t see him hit it. “Piss off, I said!” 

“You know, I don’t get it,” Harry said, taking another step forward. “Before this year, you were always running your mouth, almost _begging_ to get into a fight with me. Now, you just run period. You avoid me, you pretend like I don’t even _exist_ , and I’m getting pretty fucking fed up with it.”

Malfoy didn’t have anything to say in response to that, apparently. After a few moments of terse silence, Harry stamped his foot, making Malfoy jump. “What is it? Is it because I’m a Sentinel now?” Harry had no choice but to take another few steps closer, as his psychic energy was almost yanking him towards Malfoy now. “Are you _afraid_ of me?” 

Malfoy did look pretty scared. His back was against the wall now, his knees too watery to move, and his grey eyes were wide. He grasped onto the base of his skull with white fingers. Harry’s hearing latched onto his heartbeat, thudding like a rabbit’s. The Sentinel loomed forward even further, feeling the gratification that came with cornering its prey. 

But Malfoy's distress made Harry feel sick and disgusted with himself. The feeling grew worse after he took a few steps back and Malfoy’s tension lessened somewhat. “You _are_ afraid of me. I … I didn’t think you’d really … well. I suppose I’m—sorry, I guess. I didn’t know.” 

Malfoy’s mouth puckered as if he’d eaten a lemon, and his quicksilver eyes flashed. “I am _not_ afraid of you, Potter,” he spat. “Don’t get the wrong idea. Although you’re right about one thing: it _is_ because you’re a Sentinel.”

Now it was Harry who was taking a step backwards, and Malfoy advancing. “I’ve always made myself perfectly clear on what I think about Sentinels, Potter. So get this through your fat head: I don’t like Sentinels. I _hate_ them, in fact. Sentinels are a threat to civilisation, and should all be euthanised like the wild _beasts_ they are!” Malfoy’s face was getting redder, and his pitch was rising in increasing hysteria, and Harry could only stand and gape. “I don’t want you anywhere _near_ me! I don’t want to look at you or talk to you ever again! So just LEAVE. ME. ALONE!” 

Harry felt the desperate words like physical blows. His energy stopped pulling at him and went limp. Malfoy looked taken aback at his own outburst for a moment; before his expression shuttered and he leant down to pick up his back from where it had fallen. Harry was frozen.

A distant rapid tapping pricked Harry’s hearing, and he listened as they grew closer. High-heels. Madam Pomfrey tottered around the corner, shouting “Draco, what’s the matter?”

She knew Malfoy would be here? Perhaps she was demanding regular check-ups, after his mysterious illness at the beginning of the year. Hell, maybe he had a _condition._ Harry did not want to care at all at the moment. 

Harry’s presence was undoubtedly a surprise to the nurse, as she looked between Harry and Malfoy with concern. “What are you doing here, Mr Potter? Were you two arguing?” She was looking mostly at Malfoy (since when was she close enough to him to use his first name?) and apparently asking him a silent question with her eyes. Anger settled back around Harry’s heart as Malfoy ran a hand through his dishevelled white-blond hair and nodded at her. _There he goes again, pretending like I’m not even **here!**_  

Reassured, Madam Pomfrey turned the full extent of her fury upon Harry. “I believe I made myself _quite_ clear last time I saw you, Mr Potter, that you were only to return under duress and with a signed note from a professor! Is this the case?” 

Harry ground his molars for a second, tearing his eyes away from Malfoy to look at her. “No ma’am,” he said shortly.

“Then I bid you goodnight. And take care not to start fights in my Hospital Wing again, or you’ll be down in the laundry helping with the linens for a _month_ ’s worth of detentions!” Not a threat to be taken lightly—with a Five-Senser’s sense of smell, the laundry room would be absolute hell. 

Harry swallowed his tongue, reigned in the snarling Sentinel, and nodded shortly. With a last look at Malfoy, who was staring at the floor in apparent fascination, Harry turned on his heel and left. 

So Malfoy wanted to hate him. Fine. Harry was no longer worthy of even a casual insult, or any attention whatsoever. _Fine_. Malfoy wanted to pretend he didn’t even exist _._ **_Fine._**

Harry would hate him back twice as hard. Harry would loathe the very sight of him, He would ignore the sound of Malfoy’s voice in class, and the way his hair glinted too brightly in the sun, and his stupidly white teeth, and the way his eyes sometimes reflected the sky. No matter what it took, Harry was going to wash his hands of the prejudiced Serpent forever.

Harry went back to the Lion House dormitories, crawled into his glorified blanket fort, and didn’t come out again for the rest of the night.

 

•–•–•

 

As soon as Potter was gone, Pomfrey dashed over to Draco and began fussing over him. “Are you all right? Are you feeling fuzzy at all? Can you hear all my words clearly?” She felt his forehead, took his pulse and pried open one of his eyelids to stare at his pupils. 

Draco shook her off gently, feeling hollow and wrung out. “I—would like to sit down, I think.” 

She led him into her apartments and helped him sit on the sofa, tutting at the state of him. “Listen to me, Draco. You’re at great risk of a Swoon right now, so what I want you to do is just concentrate on breathing, okay? Just breathe slowly, close your eyes, and sense _nothing_ but your Empathy. Let it move freely, don’t try to control it yet.” 

Easier said than done—his bubble was in tatters, and he couldn’t even _feel_ his Empathy at the moment. It had snapped, or broken, or leaked out into the air somehow and dissipated. There was a negative space where it should be, a black sinkhole that threatened to drain Draco of every ounce of energy he had left. His instincts told him that should he allow himself to get pulled inside; they’d have a hell of a time pulling him back out again. 

He laid down on the sofa and closed his eyes, trying to follow Pomfrey’s directions and just breathe. He didn’t touch the sinkhole in the wellspring, just let it lessen with every breath until it collapsed upon itself and released his energy. Pomfrey made him answer a question every so often while he was recovering, to be sure he hadn’t slipped into a Swoon. 

When at last Draco’s Empathy had restored itself to its proper place and he’d spent some time letting it waft around freely, he opened his eyes and sat up. Pomfrey draped her caduceus blanket over his shoulders and pressed a cold glass of water in his hands. “Drink up. I added a bit of caffeine powder to give your energy a boost.” 

“Thanks,” Draco muttered quietly and started sipping the slightly bitter-tasting water. 

And that was apparently the limit to her patience. Now that she knew her pupil was out of danger, she opened her mouth and let fly the anger. “ _What_ in _God’s name_ were you thinking, Draco? I thought you told me you had nothing to do with Harry Potter!” 

Draco nearly choked on the water in his haste to reply. “I _don’t!_ I was just sitting in the hall waiting for you, minding my business, _he’s_ the one who swanned in and started yelling—” 

“What on earth about? Draco … please, tell me the truth. Does he _know_ about you? Have you been attempting to help him with your Empathy? Is  _that_ why he’s always sniffing around after you?”

“No! He—I don’t _know_ why he was yelling, I think he wanted to fight me or something, but then he got mad that I was ignoring him, and _then_ he got upset because he thought I was _afraid_ of him or something—“ Draco was babbling, but he couldn’t quite seem to stop. The events of the encounter swirled around in his brain, confusing and embarrassing him in turns. 

Never, before tonight, had he experienced the sheer brute force of Harry Potter's aura.  He'd felt the hints of it before, in class and corridors, and of course he'd felt the strength of it when it had pulled him in during the Zone—but it hadn't felt like  _that_.  Like being at the bottom of the sea with nothing but a cracking glass dome between you and the endless crushing black.  He'd barely been able to hold his Empathy back, and his Shield had eventually given way under the pressure of the two opposing forces. If Pomfrey hadn't shown up right then, Draco would've lost his Empathy and his secret in one fell swoop.

And the words they'd exchanged ... _God_ , he hadn't even been able to look Potter in the eyes. Every time, he remembered what it had felt like to touch Potter’s mind with his Empathy, how Potter had turned his face to Draco in unconsciousness seeking his comfort, the sound of his sigh as black eyelashes fluttered softly … 

 _Fuck!_ Draco was blushing again. _What is **wrong** with me?_  

"And why should Mr Potter be upset over that?  You've never been friends, have you?"  She shook her head at Draco's look of revulsion and indignation, a hand at her mouth.  "I'm worried, Draco! I can't think of why else he would be here, yelling at you, caring so much about what you say and how you act if he doesn't know about you."

Draco leaned forward, grasping his mentor's hand in his. In this, he could be truthful.  Of this, he was sure.  "Harry Potter does  _not_ know about me.  He will _never_ find out about me.  He's oblivious and dim-witted.  I won't get close to him, I'll keep him at a distance.  He may have snuck up on me tonight, but that was a one-off.  I said some things that were a bit ... well.  I don't think he'll want to see me again anytime soon.  So don't worry, Madam Pomfrey.  I'll be _fine."_

Pomfrey squeezed his hand.  "I really hope so, Draco.  I don't want to upset you, but you need to understand this.  He's not like other Sentinels.  He's a _Five-Senser._  His energy is a tornado on the very _best_ of days.  If your Empathy ever connected with him ... it would be _over._  He'd be drawn to you, without knowing why, no matter what you said or did to him.  His aura would work tirelessly to pull you two together because that's the natural order of things.  It's biology."

Draco swallowed against the bile rising in his throat.  Oh god, oh _god._  

"I want you to observe Harry very carefully, from a distance," Pomfrey continued.  "If it seems like he's fixated on you, even a little bit, I want you to come to find me right away. Don't even wait a minute."

Draco nodded foggily, his thoughts churning in his head.  Measures and countermeasures were forming on the chessboard of his mind, each one more desperate and insane than the last.  How much money would it take to run away to France, and did the library even carry any books on hypnosis?

Madam Pomfrey bit her lip, looking away from him for a moment.  Then, something steeled in her expression and she turned back to him with fire dancing in her eyes.  Draco was startled out of his thoughts at the sight.  "Promise me one thing, Draco.  Promise that you won't keep any secrets from me.  I know you don't want to be discovered, and you don't want to go to the Tower.  I _understood._  I agreed to help you achieve this, at the cost of my time and my energy and my knowledge.  I didn't accept the promise of your parent's money in return.  I didn't want to be repaid with money.  But this— _this_ is my payment, Draco.  The truth _has_ to be my payment.  I cannot protect you if you won't be honest with me."

Truth as payment.  The words stuck with him, as Pomfrey bundled him onto her sofa for the night (to keep him close in case he started to feel Swoon-y again) and turned off all the lights.  It stuck with him all throughout the last week of the semester, sitting his midterms and packing his suitcases for the holiday and finalizing his schedule for the new term.

It was in his head during his final session with Madam Pomfrey the night before his departure.  She meditated with him, and smiled at him, and didn't mention Potter once.  She gave him a collection of articles on Projection.  "Light reading," she'd said cheerfully, "to prepare you for our next topic."

It was with him on the train to London, staring out the window and being a dreary bore, according to Blaise.  With each passing kilometre, Draco became more and more sure that she was right.  She'd done so much to help him, and he'd done so little to thank her.  In his parents' world, one's gratitude was always measured in pounds; but if Madam Pomfrey wanted to weigh _his_ against the truth, then he would make sure the scales tipped fairly.

He would tell her the truth, first thing next term.  After all, if anyone could help him, she'd proven over and over again that it was her. 

**•–•–•**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New title! 
> 
> Please leave comments, I love each and every one to death. I mean it. I will take the comment section to my grave so I can read them for all eternity ...


	7. Danger

7  
•–•–•

 

Draco poked at his Christmas pudding discreetly, feeling petulant but knowing better than to show it here in the formal dining room, sitting in the middle of a long table full of members of the House of Lords and their families.

His parents were in their element—his mother playing the gleaming effervescent hostess, and his father directing conversation at the head of the table with all the artful grace of a maestro in front of an orchestra. And where was Draco in this picture? Mostly ignored, stuck with the other so-called children who were too young to partake in the politics, but too old to go excuse themselves and play cards in the drawing room. (Or maybe go up to one’s bedroom and hide for the rest of the night).

He put down his dessertspoon before he was tempted into bad table manners, and folded up his napkin. Conversations filtered in through one ear and out the other. Everything smelled of pine and cranberries. He looked around at the silver and blue frosted wreathes, the fairy lights, and navy blue Christmas trees with expensive silver ornaments, and felt a moment of peace despite his foul mood. The atmosphere was lovely—Mother had clearly gone all out this year.

The moment didn’t last. Theo Nott made another attempt to touch him, which Draco elegantly dodged, and his peace evaporated. “Personal space, Nott,” Draco hissed. The taller boy had noticed Draco’s newfound aversion to touch and had made it the night’s ambition to push as many of Draco’s buttons as he could. The _toad._

“Don't be cold, old sport,” Nott drawled with what he undoubtedly thought was a charming smile. He tried to pat Draco’s hand. Draco considered stabbing him with his salad fork.

He caught his mother giving him a very subtle side-eye, and sighed inwardly. All right, so maybe it wasn’t _only_ Theo who had noticed Draco's standoffishness … but he couldn’t help it. He wished Pansy were here. And not just because he was having a hard time dealing with Theo, but because he was having a hard time dealing with _everything._ She was his best friend and used to be his closest confidant. It was getting to the point where he would actually be willing to tell her the truth about the whole Empathy thing if only she’d offer her shoulder to cry on. It was rather pathetic.

His problem was very simple: he was regressing. Ever since he’d come home, it seemed like all the progress he’d made with Madam Pomfrey over the last few months had gone out the window. It was frustrating and a little scary, to feel his Shield slowly unravel piece-by-piece until he was weak and fragile and one friendly pat away from losing his damn mind. He was having a hard time sleeping again, always being woken by strange dreams and feeling emotions that were not his own. His bubble would be gone when he awoke—almost like his Empathy had broken out and went sleepwalking around the manor without him. Each time, he’d wait in exhausted fear for the inevitable, for his father to come bursting into the room to accuse him of the truth. His parents were starting to worry about him again. It had taken a lot of meditation this morning (and a bit of his mother’s expensive concealing crème underneath his eyes) to be allowed to attend the party tonight.

Except now it seemed like he would’ve been better off in bed. Stuck next to Nott, who was being a toad, ignored and exhausted and wondering if his pitiful energy reserves would run out before their guests went home. Maybe he should stab _himself_ with a salad fork and be done with it.

Wishing very much that he could prop his heavy head up on an elbow (and wouldn’t that be amusing, to see which relative would give themselves apoplexia first trying to side-eye him into better table manners), Draco watched the head of the table. The other Lords were hanging on Lucius Malfoy’s every word as he expertly manipulated the conversation to touch upon every political issue he wanted to address in the coming year. It was disgusting, like flies buzzing around a prized stallion. They didn’t even realise they were doing it, didn’t understand that every opinion and remark they made was only because Lucius had directed their minds there, made them feel that it must be made. They thought themselves equals, but his father was so far above their level they couldn’t even see him.

He didn’t know how his father could stand it. Draco himself tuned it all out, preferring to watch body language and expressions, amusing himself by playing Sherlock Holmes and ‘deducing’ a bunch of made-up scandals for each Lord.

That is, however, until a single word latched onto his attention and yanked it out through his ears.

“There was the matter, of course, with that _Empath.”_ Draco blinked. There were choruses of “Dreadful!”s and “Shameful!”s and Draco’s heart pounded.

Two red-faced Lords were delighted to regale the tale of such a scandal to their equally bladdered companions. Apparently, some Parliamentary Under-Secretary had thought to conceal his status as an Empath, and slither his way into power by using his freakish Empathy to trick them all. He’d violated their minds, influenced their thoughts with his unholy power—how else could one of _those_ creatures have gotten such a cushy job, gained such influence if it wasn’t a trick? But he’d been found out, set upon by some rabid unbonded Sentinel in Trafalgar Square and dragged off to the Tower.

And all the Lords, they shared such a smarmy look, and of _course_ they would have thrown him out of Parliament themselves if they had known, and how _disgusting_ was it that he had dared to touch them with that slimy Empathy! They were worse than whores, those dim-witted troglodytes, only good for a barbarian Sentinel to _sodomise—_

And then, quite suddenly, everyone in the room was looking at Draco. A hush had fallen over the table. He didn’t quite understand why until he noticed that he'd stood, that he'd slammed his palms down on the table and knocked over his water glass.

Narcissa rose with her son, expression concerned but eyes narrowed in warning. “Draco, darling, what is the matter?”

What was the _matter?_ Draco was _angry,_ that's what! He was angrier than he could ever remember being. Men had sat there, laughed at him, as good as called him a whore, and what had his father done? His father had let them with a perfectly amiable smile. His Empathy roiled in sharp spikes around him. He ignored his father's calls, concentrating on breathing, trying to meditate and slow his heart rate. He might even have managed it, too, if only he hadn't been so sleep-deprived. His Empathy slipped out of his control. It punctured his bubble and spilt out in waves upon waves of razor-edged fury.

The change in atmosphere and volume was instant. Everyone turned away from Draco and turned on each other. Children began to fight over their toys and little baubles. Ladies said out loud all the cutting remarks and criticisms they had been internalising throughout the evening. Lords bickered over policies and called each other socialists and fat numpties. His mother and his Aunt Bella exchanged harsh words over a bottle of cabernet sauvignon—the latter of whom was screeching that it would make their mother roll in her grave if she ever found out Cissy had paired it with the milk-fed lamb like a _plebian—_

All the anger drained out of Draco at once, to be replaced by horror. He looked around with wild eyes at the chaos unfolding in the dining room. What was happening? Why was everyone suddenly angry and shouting? And now the children sitting by Draco were starting to cry, scared and upset, and Theo was shaking, and Draco had a terrible realisation—

 _He_ was doing this. Everyone in this room was being affected by his emotions because he wasn’t appropriately Shielded and his Empathy was everywhere. Somehow, without even reading about it first, let alone practising it, Draco was Projecting.

He tried desperately to yank it all back, tried to fill all the leaks in his deflating bubble, but it was _hard._ There was nothing left in his Wellspring. Theo was echoing all the expletives in Draco's head, and _oh god_ , his father was looking at him with a strange expression on his face, silent even as he was surrounded by a sea of hysterical dinner guests. _He knows_ , Draco's mind whispered, _and he'll hate you, and he'll send you away_ —

"He knows," Theo was murmuring over and over again. "Christ, he knows, he knows, he knows ..." Children wailing, women begging not to be sent away, men turning to Lucius demanding to know why he hated them—

And then Draco had had enough. It was all too much. "SHUT UP!" he screamed, and instead of pulling his Empathy in, he pushed it all outwards with one sharp shove. Once again it engulfed the room like a tsunami wave and then receded, spent. Silence pooled in its wake. Draco panted heavily, sweat pouring down his face even as his body wracked with shivers. Everyone was staring at him, waiting for him to speak.

He had so little left in him. He felt a familiar disconnected, floaty feeling that meant he would Swoon at any moment. But he had to fix this, somehow. For his parents, for his freedom, for himself ... he was going to _fix_ it.

"You're all feeling disoriented and sleepy," he called out, gripping the table with white fingers to keep himself standing. God, he didn't even know what he was _doing,_ but he had to try. He hauled his sluggish Empathy over the room again, hoping that the confused and bleary stares left in its wake meant that it was working. "You're all going to fall asleep. None of what just happened was important. You'll forget all about it." The edges of his vision started to go dark, and his knees shook. "Forget it. Forget everything. Just sleep." His Wellspring was dark and deep and began pulling at his consciousness insistently. He fought it as best he could, long enough to pass his Empathy over all the partygoers three more times for good measure. "Sleep. Forget. Sleep, _please_ ..."

The children fell asleep instantly, falling all over each other in big puppy piles. The adults took longer, blinking blearily and yawning before they too made pillows of their beetroot salads and succumbed to Draco's Empathy. His father was the last to fall, eyes never wavering from his son's form until they slipped closed.

Draco collapsed onto his chair with a great whoosh of breath. His extremities tingled, and his vision swam. He barely noticed when Theo's head lolled on his shoulder. Was he going to Swoon? Was he going to die here, surrounded by hypnotised party guests and covered in Theodore Nott's drool?

He closed his eyes. For one glorious moment, there was no Empathy, no Shield, no Wellspring. He was an ordinary boy, going to sleep in his warm bed on a typical Christmas Eve, precious and safe and loved. Tears of relief slipped from the corner of his eyes. It wasn't a terrible way to go out.

Then his Wellspring opened it's dark, bottomless maw, and swallowed him whole.

 

•–•–•

 

Ottery St. Catchpole was postcard-perfect under the colours of the early evening sunset; fairy lights twinkled, and chimneys smoked, and icicles decorated the under-eaves like so many delicate ornaments. Harry stepped off the train to the sleepy, snow-covered village with a sense of relief, glad to be away from the lingering smells of thousands of passengers that permeated the train car. He took a lungful of clean, country air and smiled.

Arthur Weasley greeted him warmly on the platform, offering to take his luggage while Fred & George mockingly flanked Harry’s sides and offered to carry _him_ too, lifting him up under his knees before depositing him in a snowbank. Harry laughed and threw a few snowballs, accepted Ron’s hand up off the ground, and helped carry his things to the car. He never stopped grinning, happy to finally be with his chosen family.

The Weasley’s little farmhouse, nicknamed “The Burrow” by some great-great aunt, was packed full of red-headed family members and the table held enough food to feed an entire regiment of soldiers. It was crowded but cosy, and everyone mingled together in the sitting room and kitchen while Celine Dion crooned a holiday tune over the radio. All the Weasley children were there—even Charlie, who had flown in from Romania where he lived and worked as a rehabilitator in a brown bear sanctuary. Molly spent quite a bit of time fussing over him, despairing over Charlie’s adventurous ways, that he hadn’t been content to settle down in St. Catchpole with a wife and his own veterinary clinic. Percy made a snide comment about how it was just as well, seeing as Charlie preferred vicious animals to people, and Ginny put a kipper down his sweater in retaliation.

Later on, Fred & George nicked him a cupful of Molly’s Adults-Only eggnog, which made him feel pleasantly foggy and had the added benefit of dulling his senses beautifully. Everything was great. He was having a good time. The rum tingled and burned pleasantly. There was no reason for Harry to be anything other than utterly relaxed and content.  Except … he _wasn’t,_ and he couldn’t understand why. As the evening progressed, his Sentinel aura became more and more restless, until Harry was incapable of sitting still. He found himself continually drawn to the kitchen window, to stare not at the moon or the stars, but at a fixed point somewhere to the east of the village. He couldn’t shake the eerie feeling that he needed to be somewhere else; that someone he cared for needed him.  Ron and Ginny noticed his uneasiness and tried to distract him with card games. It worked, for a little bit, and even when it didn't Harry still forced himself to stay engaged in the game and not look longingly out the window. It was _Christmas,_ and this was his family, and his Sentinel didn’t know what it was talking about anyway because everyone he cared about was right here with him.

Only his Sentinel apparently didn't value what Harry thought, because twenty minutes later it suddenly surged to the surface, shut down all rational thought, and made him dash out the front door into the snow with only his socks on.

Panic laced through him as he sprinted down the road, heading east. Static roared in his ears, leaving room for only one thought: _wrong, wrong, wrong_. Something had gone terribly wrong, and only Harry could fix it. Only Harry could fix _him._ The rumbling of the Weasley family's Ford Anglia behind him barely registered in Harry's fear-soaked brain.

"HARRY!" Roared a voice; Ron's voice. The car drove alongside him, Ron half hanging out of the passenger window as he attempted to snag Harry's jumper. "STOP!"

Arthur gunned it, wheels spinning for traction in the snow-covered lane as the car jolted ahead and swung around to block Harry's path. Mistake—Harry just vaulted over the hood, dodging Ron's outstretched fingers. The Sentinel was grimly satisfied, how _dare_ they try to stop him when his Guide was in trouble? His satisfaction lasted only as long as he was in the air; when he landed on the other side of the Anglia, his sock-feet slipped on an icy patch and he face-planted in the snow.

Four sets of hands were on him immediately, turning around but keeping him pressed firmly into the ground. Harry writhed and screamed at Bill and George—or Fred—while Arthur was trying to talk him down, and Ron was sitting on his legs. "LET ME GO," he kept screaming. "LET ME GO! He _needs_ me!"

"Harry James Potter." A new voice was in his ear, a woman's voice—and this time, he froze. It wasn't the voice, however, that finally stilled him, but a force, soft and familiar, that swept over his brain like the comforting stroke of a mother's hand: Molly Weasley's Empathy. Molly belonged to the Prewett family, one of the few Sacred Twenty-Eight families that still retained their ancestral powers. She was a very capable Empath, and every time her Empathy washed over him, Harry's Sentinel rumbled in pleasure, and Harry felt overwhelming relief. From the time he’d come Online last summer, she’d always made him feel safe and loved, like the mother that Harry never had.

But it was different this time; his Sentinel settled, but only grudgingly, and Harry did not feel relief. His eyes pulled east again, staring forlornly into the distance. The Empathy in his mind felt foreign and unwanted, like a stranger's. It wasn't the one he wanted; it wasn't the pure, raw strength that had matched Harry’s in every way. It wasn't his Guide.

Oh _god,_ his Guide. He needed him! He had to go, he had to _run—_

"Harry, can you hear me, love?" Molly's face hovered above his. She was pale, and concern radiated from every point of contact. "Please, look at me."  With great effort, Harry fought the fog in his brain and looked at her. "Good Harry, excellent. Take a few deep breaths with me, in and out, ready?" Harry tried to breathe with her, struggling to follow her snail's pace. His thumping heart started to slow. "Close your eyes. Listen to my heartbeat. Don't think of anything else."

Slowly, over the next five minutes, Molly’s words and Empathy managed to coax him out of his Sentinel-induced haze. As he came back to himself, he became aware of the burning sensation in his lungs and the frozen state of his feet. He started shivering.  The Weasleys bustled him into the car immediately, smushing him between Molly and Fred—George?—to warm him up. Arthur blasted the heat as he drove back to the farm. Molly stroked over his hair and made soothing noises at him, but other than that no one seemed to want to speak, afraid to set him off again.

It wasn't until twenty minutes later, back at the Burrow with a steaming mug of cocoa and his bare feet soaking in a tub of warm water, that Ron finally snapped and broke the silence.

"Okay, what the bloody hell happened?" He bellowed at Harry. Molly and Charlie both rounded on him, telling him to watch his language and to shut up, respectively. But Arthur joined in on Ron's side, coming to stand next to his son and looking at Harry with a severe expression.

"You scared us, Harry. We just want to know what happened so we can make sure it doesn't happen again. Is that alright? Can you tell us?"

Harry really didn't want to talk about it. He was embarrassed and confused, and his Sentinel still felt so close to the surface. Always, he felt obligated to do as Arthur asked, seeing how Harry had ruined their Christmas party and made everyone go chasing after him in the snow like a runaway dog.  The best that he could, Harry described how restless he'd felt all night, feeling like he needed to be somewhere else, with someone who needed him. He refused to say the word 'Guide' out loud, but given Ron's knowing look in his direction, he understood perfectly whom Harry was referring to. The Weasleys, bless them, tried very hard to put his mind at ease. They had Ginny phone Luna, and Ron rang up Hermione. Calls were made to the Longbottom's, the Finnegan's, the Thomas's, and even the Brown's. No one was happy about being disturbed on Christmas, but they all understood and reassured Harry that all was well.

Harry sat there red-faced through all of it, pretending to be relieved when in reality he just felt ill. He knew it wasn't any of his friends. He knew it, and yet he couldn't explain to them that it was his Guide who was in trouble, his Guide who needed him. He didn't even know who _he_ was, or where he lived!  All he knew was that if the Weasleys hadn't stopped him earlier, Harry's barmy Sentinel would have kept on running forever until he'd either found his Guide … or died of hypothermia trying.

After another hour of apologies, hot cocoa, and all the fussing one could possibly tolerate, Harry was sent to bed. He changed into pyjamas and settled onto the slightly saggy air mattress next to Ron's bed. Ron wasted no time, hopping into bed after the lights went off and turning to face him in the dark. "So. Who is it? This person who may or may _not_ actually exist, who you tried to kill yourself for?"

"Ron ..."

"No, really Harry, I'm all ears. You tore out of his house like the hounds of Hades were on your arse, and scared the fucking shit out of all of us. Out of _me._ I know you didn't want to tell Mum and Dad about the whole Guide thing, but I already know about it so start talking."

"What I told your parents was the truth, Ron. I just ... knew, suddenly, that something was happening to him. Something bad. I panicked, and the Sentinel took over, and ... yeah. Stupid fucking decisions were made. Or rather, no decisions were made at all. I wasn't exactly thinking at the time."

 _"Him?_ What, your Guide is a _boy?"_

Harry realised what’d he said and felt his neck flush, thankful for the darkness. He affected a nonchalant tone. "Problem?"

"I—no, of course not, I don't care about ... that sort of thing. I mean I'm not ... you know, _prejudice_ or anything, and well—it's different for your sort anyway, isn't it?"

 _"My_ sort?!"

"Fuck, no I didn't mean—that came out wrong. I just mean ... it's _fine,_ Harry. I was just surprised. Last I checked you didn't know a single thing about this person, and now all of a sudden you're saying it's a bloke? How do you know that? Did you meet him?"

Harry sighed, forcing his hackles down. "I dunno. It's the first time I've ever associated any gender with them. When the Sentinel was all up in my headspace earlier, it kept saying ' _he needs me_.' I don't know why, but it feels like the Sentinel knows exactly who this Guide is."

Ron leaned out further over the bed, and Harry could just make out the anticipation on his face. "Well? Tell me!"

Harry sent him a flat look that he couldn't see. "I said the _Sentinel_ knows, not me. I personally have no idea."

"...That doesn't make any fucking sense, mate. The Sentinel is you, isn't it? If it knows, and it's a part of you, then you should know too."

Harry sighed again, rubbing a temple. "Tell me about it. Gives me a headache trying to wrap my brain around what it actually is, this stupid Sentinel. Like, on the Scientific Side of things, I know its just energy. My energy that comes from my brain, and powers these abilities that I have. But on like, the Spiritual Side of things, it really feels like it's another person inside of me. I swear it has its own feelings, and its own thoughts, and it can act independently of me as well. Somewhat. It's really fucking weird."

Ron lay back on his bed, blowing out a breath as he went. "I don't get it, mate, and I don't _want_ to get it. I'm just glad I didn't inherit anything from Mum's side of the family like Charlie and George did. I'd go mental like you clearly have, Popsicle Toes." Harry threw his pillow at Ron, laughing, and Ron giggled and sang in a tuneless voice, _popsicle toes are always froze!_ They fought and laughed together, and only settled back down when Ginny pounded on the wall between their bedrooms and shouted at them to stuff it.

Even though talking freely to Ron had made him feel better about what had happened, Harry still found it difficult to sleep. Long after Ron began snoring, Harry's eyes remained glued to the window. The desire to run had gone, but the worry and the fear for his Guide's safety had not. They were connected in some way; must have been ever since that night last month on the Sixth Floor.  And now, that connection was telling him things about his Guide, things he hadn't known before.

Harry hadn't known the Guide was a boy, for instance. When Ron had brought it up, that was the first time Harry'd noticed the shift in his brain from they/them pronouns to he/his. Ron was right. It made no sense. Harry had no real way to know the Guide's gender for sure. But it felt _right_ somehow, it felt like the truth.

It had felt real tonight when the Sentinel had sensed his Guide was in danger. Now that sense of danger had passed, but Harry couldn't parse whether that was a good thing or a bad thing. Did it mean his Guide was safe? Or did it just mean that he was dead? Closing his eyes, Harry experimented. He felt around for a connection, a spark of knowledge, anything that might tell him more about the boy who was meant for Harry. He tried to put himself in the mind of his Sentinel, to see if any other random information popped into his brain. Nothing happened, and Harry gave up, going back to staring out the window.

Except maybe it had worked to some extent because Harry was suddenly sure that the boy was not dead, wherever he was. Perhaps he wasn't safe—no, he definitely wasn't safe, Harry could feel it—but he was alive.

He was _alive._

Relief was a timid thing, trickling through his body with an unwillingness to truly comfort. But it was enough to finally allow Harry to close his eyes, and sleep.

 

•–•–•

 

Darkness, for the longest time.  Peace.  Then, colours slowly seeped in, calm greens and greys, and a burst of blue—was that a forest?—and then Draco woke up.  Sort of.  He didn't see anything but that swirl of colour, and heard only snatches of conversations and murmured comfort.  He wasn't sure what was going on, just that he wasn't afraid, and didn't feel any of the pain that had been with him when he'd succumbed to the Swoon.

He must be dead, he reasoned with a contented detachment.  He was lying down on something soft, and hands were stroking his hair, and he felt safe.  The sweet smell of gardenias filled his nose; his mother's perfume.  Maybe he was with his departed family, perhaps they had come to welcome him.  Were these his great-grandmother's hands?  Narcissa had always admired her grandmother, and Draco knew she tried her best to emulate her in life.

He tried to see past the swirling colours, past the strange, shimmering image of a forest full of blue trees, but couldn't.  Words rose to his throat, voice humming, but his tongue and lips were heavy and refused to shape them.  "Shh," the voice that sounded like his mother's hushed him, "Don't try to speak.  Don't try to open your eyes.  Lie still.  I'm helping you best I can, but I'm not very strong.  I need more time."  Another voice spoke, one that sounded muddled and distant.  He couldn't place it.  He couldn't hear what it said.

Draco's foggy mind drifted on the edge of consciousness for a bit, while the voices above him conversed and argued.  He didn't know what was happening, but couldn't feel frightened about it.  He couldn't feel much of anything at the moment, other than that detached sense of calm. He watched the forest lazily.  A flash of silver caught his eye, and then it was gone.

"You did so well, my brave boy," came the voice-that-was-like-his-mother's whisper again.  "Everything will be alright.  You are safe.  I love you."  What a nice dream.

The colours began fading out of the world again, the forest turned grey and black until it was gone altogether.  Draco went with it.

 

•–•–•

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, that was a trip. Hey everyone, it's been so long! Sorry about that. I was busy, then I had writer's block, and then I dropped a nuke on that block and wrote this entire chapter in one night. Craaaazy.
> 
> My goal is to get one more chapter posted before the end of the summer. I'll try super hard for you guys! You can help me out a lot by writing some reviews for me to read and stay motivated.
> 
> Thanks, see you next time!


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